"And why did I come?" she mused, half to herself. "Nor can I say that. Needs must when the devil drives; and His Majesty surely was on the box and using his whip-hand, two days ago, back in Washington. Your own sense of fairness will admit as much as that." She threw back her head like a restless horse, blooded, mettlesome, and resumed her pacing up and down, her hands now clasped behind her back. "When I left the carriage with my maid Jeanne, there," she resumed at length; "when I passed through that dark train shed at midnight, I felt that something was wrong. When the door of the railway coach was opened I felt that conviction grow. When you met me--the first time I ever saw you, sir,--I felt my heart turn cold." "Madam!" "And when the door of the coach closed on myself and my maid,--when we rolled on away from the city, in spite of all I could do or say--, why, then, sir, you were my jailer. Have matters changed since then?" "Madam, from the first you were splendid! You showed pure courage. 'I am a prisoner!' you cried at first--not more than that. But you said it like a lady, a noblewoman. I admired you then because you faced me--whom you had never seen before--with no more fear than had I been a private and you my commanding officer." "Fear wins nothing." "Precisely. Then let us not fear what the future may have for us. I have no directions beyond this point,--Pittsburg. I was to take boat here, that was all. I was to convey you out into the West, somewhere, anywhere, no one was to know where. And someway, anyway, my instructions were, I was to lose you--to lose you. Madam, in plain point of fact. And now, at the very time I am indiscreet enough to tell you this much, you make my cheerful task the more difficult by saying that you must be regarded only as a prisoner of war!" Serene, smiling, enigmatic, she faced him with no fear whatever showing in her dark eyes. The clear light of the bright autumn morning had no terrors for youth and health like hers. She put back a truant curl from her forehead where it had sought egress to the world, and looked him full in the face now, drawing a deep breath which caused the round of her bosom to lift the lace at her throat. Then, woman-like, she did the unlocked for, and laughed at him, a low, full ripple of wholesome laughter, which evoked again a wave of color to his sensitive face. Josephine St. Auban was a prisoner,--a prisoner of state, in fact, and such by orders not understood by herself, although, as she knew very well, a prisoner without due process of law. Save for this tearful maid who stood yonder, she was alone, friendless. Her escape, her safety even, lay in her own hands. Yet, even now, learning for the first time this much definitely regarding the mysterious journey into which she had been entrapped--even now, a prisoner held fast in some stern and mysterious grasp whose reason and whose nature she could not know--she laughed, when she should have wept!