She finished; her hands clenched, her cheeks white; but in the gray deep of her eyes such a mixture of rage, sorrow, irresolution, and despair as I hope never to see in a human glance again. The strain had been too much, and, highly as she spoke, I knew and felt that she would yet yield. It was the old story. It is not in a woman’s words, but in her eyes, that her heart lies. As she stood there, silent and motionless, Marcilly leaned over the Vicomte’s shoulder, and whispered something. Then they both beckoned to Lanoy and Chandieu, and retired into the recess of the window, where they spoke in whispers, and, as I looked, I saw a smile on Lanoy’s dark face, a light in the Vicomte’s eyes--and a jealous anger came into my heart that I was not asked to share their confidences. But here on the daïs, where through the open window the mellow sunlight fell on the rushes at our feet, and lit them up in gold and brown; where still we were partly in shadow, and partly in light, there was no word spoken, and the Princess stood, biting her lip and watching the four. So still was it one might have heard the fall of a silken glove. Suddenly the falcon on Majolais’ wrist began to flutter its wings, and the sound, as it broke the stillness, brought the Princess to the moment. She turned to Coqueville and myself. “Messieurs! You will excuse me--time presses.” With a slight bow to us, and a shrug of her shoulders in the direction of the four, she walked slowly down the hall, Yvonne de Mailly turning as she followed her, and throwing up the palms of her hands as if to say it was all over. As the Princess passed the window, however, Lanoy and the Vicomte came up to her and spoke in low, rapid tones, Jean standing a little on one side playing with the hilt of his sword. What they said I could not catch, but they urged it again and again, and she put her hands to her face, exclaiming: “No! No! I cannot--I cannot!” Then Jean stepped forward, dropping on one knee before her, added his entreaty to those of the other two, and one by one we came up and formed a half-circle around them. “Madame,” said Lanoy, “it is not for the Prince alone. It is for the King, for France. I pledge you my word he succeeds.” “What can I say?” she asked. “Friends!” and she turned toward us, “do you know what I have been asked to do? I have been asked to accept the sacrifice of a life. Jean--our own true knight--has said that he will go to Orleans and bring off the Prince or die.” “He will succeed, madame,” said Maligny. “Would to God I could be by his side!” “Though our persecutors be swifter than the eagles of Heaven, yet the Lord of Hosts is with us. Let him go, madame, that thy beloved may be delivered. Save with thy right hand and hear me,” and Chandieu spoke in the words of the Psalmist, his voice deep but low.