It was one of those perfect spring evenings, rare enough in northern climes, without a breath of wind, when every sound carries clear and sharp through the stillness around. The air was soft and slightly moist, with a tang in it of wakening life and of rising sap, and with the scent of wild narcissus and of wood violets rising like intoxicating incense to the nostrils. It was in truth one of those evenings when happiness itself seems rudely out of place and nature--exquisite, but so cruelly transient in her loveliness--demands the tribute of gentle melancholy. A thrush said something to its mate--something insistent and tender that lulled them both to rest. After that, Nature became quite still, and Marguerite, with a catch in her throat which she would have given much to suppress, laid her head upon her husband's breast. Then it was that suddenly a man's voice, hoarse but distinct, broke in upon the perfect peace around. What it said could not at first be gathered. It took some time ere Marguerite became sufficiently conscious of the disturbing noise to raise her head and listen. As for Sir Percy, he was wrapped in the contemplation of the woman he worshipped, and nothing short of an earthquake would have dragged him back to reality, had not Marguerite raised herself on her knees and quickly whispered: "Listen!" The man's voice had been answered by a woman's, raised as if in defiance that seemed both pitiful and futile. "You cannot harm me now. I am in England!" Marguerite leaned out of the window, tried to peer into the darkness which was fast gathering over the lane. The voices had come from there: first the man's, then the woman's, and now the man's again; both speaking in French, the woman obviously terrified and pleading, the man harsh and commanding. Now it was raised again, more incisive and distinct than before, and Marguerite had in truth some difficulty in repressing the cry that rose to her lips. She had recognized the man's voice. "Chauvelin!" she murmured. "Aye, in England, citoyenne!" that ominous voice went on dryly. "But the arm of justice is long. And remember that you are not the first who has tried--unsuccessfully, let me tell you!--to evade punishment by flying to the enemies of France. Wherever you may hide, I will know how to find you. Have I not found you here, now?--and you but a few hours in Dover?" "But you cannot touch me!" the woman protested with the courage of one in despair. The man laughed. "Are you really simple enough, citoyenne," he said, "to be convinced of that?" This sarcastic retort was followed by a moment or two of silence, then by a woman's cry; and in an instant Sir Percy was on his feet and out of the house. Marguerite followed him as far as the porch, whence the sloping ground, aided by flagged steps here and there, led down to the gate and thence on to the lane.