Oh, yes! Bertrand saw a good deal of the three or four young gallants who accompanied him and the party all the way from Paris. He only saw the last of them here, in this inn, a few hours ago. One of them gave him some money to enable him to reach London in comfort. They were very kind, entirely unselfish. Mme. de Serval, Régine, and the others were overwhelmed with gratitude, and oh, so happy! Joséphine and Jacques had forgotten all about their duty to their country in their joy at finding themselves united and safe in this new land. But the Scarlet Pimpernel himself, Theresia insisted, trying to conceal her impatience under a veneer of tender solicitude--had Bertrand seen him? "No!" Bertrand replied. "I never once set eyes on him, though it was he undoubtedly who dragged me helpless out of your apartment. The others spoke of him--always as 'the chief.' They seem to reverence him. He must be fine and brave. Régine and her mother and the two young ones have learned to worship him. Small wonder! seeing what he did for them at that awful Fraternal Supper." "What did he do?" Theresia queried. And the story had to be told by Bertrand, just as he had had it straight from Régine. The asthmatic coal-heaver--the quarrel--Robespierre's arrival on the scene--the shouts--the mob. The terror of that awful giant who had dragged them into the empty house, and there left them in the care of others scarce less brave than himself. Then the disguises--the wanderings through the streets--the deathly anxiety at the gates of the city--the final escape in a laundry cart. Miracles of self-abnegation! Wonders of ingenuity and of daring! What wonder that the name of the Scarlet Pimpernel was one to be revered! "On my knees will I pay homage to him," Bertrand concluded fervently; "since he brought you to my arms!" She had him by the shoulders, held him from her at arm's length, whilst she looked--inquiring, slightly mocking--into his eyes. "Brought me to your arms, Bertrand?" she said slowly. "What do you mean?" "You are here, Theresia," he riposted. "Safe in England . . . through the agency of the Scarlet Pimpernel." She gave a hard, mirthless laugh. "Aye!" she said dryly; "through his agency. But not as you imagine, Bertrand." "What do you mean?" "The Scarlet Pimpernel, my friend, after he had dragged you away from the shelter which you had found under my roof, sent an anonymous denunciation of me to the nearest Poste de Section, as having harboured the traitor Moncrif and conspiring with him to assassinate Robespierre whilst the latter was in my apartment." Bertrand uttered a cry of horror. "Impossible!" he exclaimed.