But still the essay must be made. The honest, upright life of Bevill Bracton should not be sacrificed without some effort on her part, wicked though that effort might be, and surely--surely God would forgive her! The sweet, fair promise of Sylvia's young life should not be wrecked if she stood, if she could stand, for aught. And the moment had come. Sylvia had left the room, unable to bear further emotion; had left it to retire to her own room, there to cast herself on her knees and pray for Heaven's mercy on him she had learnt to love so fondly. The Comtesse de Valorme and De Violaine were alone. He was glancing out through the window at the garden, now drenched with rain, while she was seated by the table as she had been seated since first he was announced. [Illustration: "Almost in a whisper the Comptess spoke."--_p_. 850.] For an instant the silence between them was unbroken; then, almost in a whisper, the Comtesse de Valorme spoke to the man who still stood with his back to her. For this was no moment for the practising of that ceremony which was the essence of all intercourse between the well-bred of those days, but, instead, a moment when courtesy must sink before those emotions that sometimes in men and women's lives pluck at and rend their hearts At last, however, the woman spoke, and the man was forced to turn round and meet her gaze. "André de Violaine," she said now, and he observed how her voice faltered as she uttered the words and how her colour came and went, "have you forgotten a promise, a vow you once made me ten years ago, while demanding no vow in return from me?" "I have forgotten nothing," the other answered, his voice more calm than hers as he turned towards her, yet with his eyes lowered so that they did not meet hers. "I have forgotten neither vows nor hopes--vows, the fulfilment of which has never been demanded; hopes that withered even as they blossomed. Shall I recall them, to show how clear my memory is?" "Nay; rather let me do so. I recall a man who vowed in days gone by--far off now--that there should be no demand a woman--I--could ever make of him that he would not meet, not carry out by some means, even though at the cost of his life." "His life," De Violaine said, lifting his eyes suddenly to hers. "His life. Yes." "What can a man give that is more precious? What else is there for him to fear who fears not death, the end of life?" "Nothing," De Violaine said now, leaving that question unanswered, "has ever been demanded of me by that woman--by you. Madame, there are some men so lowly, so unheeded in this world, that favours from them are scarce worth accepting or even asking for. Had you ever called on me to do you any service, to give you even my life, the service would have been done, would have been given without a moment's hesitation."