“Dare not?” “A clean skin would hardly be in keeping with this clothing,” I pointed out. “That is true,” she admitted, with a swift glance over it. “But why did you assume such a disguise? Who will see you?” “Many people, I am afraid. In the first place we must have food.” “It is useless to deny that I am very hungry,” she agreed. “Instead of seeking food, I fell asleep,” I confessed miserably. “I shall never forgive myself.” “Nonsense! We both of us needed rest first of all. Indeed I find the pangs of hunger rather exhilarating--and how I shall relish the food when we get it! But continue: whom else shall you meet?” “In the second place,” I went on, “I must ask my way, since I am wholly unfamiliar with this country.” “Yes, of course.” “And in the third place, in a country even thinly settled, we must be prepared for chance encounters. To all the people we meet I must appear a peasant in order to protect you.” “To protect me?” “Yes; you are my prisoner--a spoil of war; there is a price on your head which I am anxious to secure. I may even have to be a little brutal with you.” “I pardon you in advance,” she smiled. “Do not hesitate to be as brutal as is needful.” “I had thought at first,” I explained, “of endeavoring to get for you a disguise somewhat like my own, but I saw the folly of the plan when I came to consider it.” “Why, pray?” “Oh, mademoiselle,” I said, “you would be no less beautiful in the dress of a peasant than in the robe of a queen! Such a disguise would deceive no one. On the contrary, it would serve only to attract attention, since a diamond is never so brilliant as in a tarnished setting.” “Thank you, monsieur,” she said, bowing. “That was very prettily turned. But since you slumbered all the afternoon, where did you find those garments? Had some one thrown them away?” “No, mademoiselle,” I stammered, turning red and white, for I had not expected the question. “I--that is----” “What is it?” she demanded, looking at me steadily. “Do not fear to tell me. Oh, I have been selfish! I have been thinking only of myself! Where are the others, M. de Tavernay? Where are our friends? Did they, also, escape?” With her clear eyes upon me, it was impossible to lie as I had intended doing. “No,” I answered in a low voice, “they did not escape.” “They were captured?” she cried, her face livid. “Oh, not so bad as that! Thank God, not so bad as that! Madame was killed by that first shot and died in the arms of the man she loved, smiling up at him. M. le Comte and Pasdeloup met the end as brave men should, facing the enemy. It was only I who ran away,” I added, the tears blinding me. She held out her hand with a quick gesture of sympathy and understanding. “It was for my sake,” she said softly. “Never forget that, my friend. In telling the story over to yourself never forget that.” “You are kind,” I murmured with full heart. “That thought alone consoles me--it was not for myself I fled.”