"Four days," he retorted gaily, "as you say! In four days, either I or a pack of assassins will be dead." "Oh, what will become of me?" she sighed. "Whatever you choose." "You are bold, milor," she rejoined more calmly. "And you are brave. Alas! what can you do, when the most powerful hands in France are against you?" "Smite them, dear lady," he replied airily. "Smite them! Then turn my back upon this fair land. It will no longer have need of me." Then he made her a courteous bow. "May I have the honour of escorting you upstairs? Your friend M. Chauvelin will be awaiting you." The name of her taskmaster brought Theresia back to the realities of life. Gone was the dream of a while ago, when subconsciously her mind had dwelt upon a sweet might-have-been. The man was nothing to her--less than nothing; a common spy, so her friends averred. Even if he had not presumed to write her an insulting letter, he was still the enemy--the foe whose hand was raised against her own country and against those with whose fortunes she had thrown in her lot. Even now, she ought to be calling loudly for help, rouse the house with her cries, so that this spy, this enemy, might be brought down before her eyes. Instead of which, she felt her heart beating with apprehension lest his quiet, even voice be heard on the floor above, and he be caught in the snare which those who feared and hated him had laid for him. Indeed, she appeared far more conscious of danger than he was; and while she chided herself for her folly in having called to him, he was standing before her as if he were in a drawing-room, holding out his arm to escort her in to dinner. His foot was on the step, ready to ascend, even whilst Theresia's straining ears caught the sound of other footsteps up above: footsteps of men--real men, those!--who were set up there to watch for the coming of the Scarlet Pimpernel, and whose vigilance had been spurred by promise of reward and by threat of death. She pushed his arm aside almost roughly. "You are mad, milor!" she said, in a choked murmur. "Such foolhardiness, when your life is in deadly jeopardy, becomes criminal folly----" "The best of life," he said airily, "is folly. I would not miss this moment for a kingdom!" She felt like a creature under a spell. He took her hand and drew it through his arm. She went up the steps beside him. Every moment she thought that one or more of the soldiers would be coming down, or that Chauvelin, impatient at her absence, might step out upon the landing. The dank, murky air seemed alive with ominous whisperings, of stealthy treads upon the stone. Theresia dared not look behind her, fearful lest the grim presence of Death itself be suddenly made manifest before her. On the landing he took leave of her, stooped and kissed her hand. "Why, how cold it is!" he remarked with a smile. His was perfectly steady and warm. The very feel of it seemed to give her strength. She raised her eyes to his.