"Oh, don't say that! don't say that!" cried Madame de Castro, almost fainting, and proving the extent of her love in her distraction and horror at the thought. "I say it to you, my sister," Gabriel responded, "not to alarm you, but that you may not refuse me a pardon and a favor. The pardon is for the terror and grief which my delirious utterances must have caused you the day when I saw you last at Paris. I cast terror and desolation into your poor heart. Alas, my sister, it was not I who spoke to you; it was the fever in my blood. I did not know what I said, upon my word! And a terrible revelation, which had been made to me that very day, and which I could scarcely keep to myself, filled my soul with madness and despair. Perhaps you remember, my sister, that it was just after leaving you that I was stricken with that long and painful illness which almost cost me my life or my reason?" "Do I remember it, Gabriel!" cried Diane. "Do not call me Gabriel, if you please! Call me always your brother, as you did just now,--call me your brother! That name, which terrified me at first, I find it necessary to hear now." "As you choose, my brother," said Diane, with amazement. At that moment, fifty paces from them, the regular tramp of a body of men on the march was heard, and Sister Bénie, full of terror, pressed close to Gabriel. "Who is that? _Mon Dieu_! they will see us!" she exclaimed. "It is one of our patrols," answered Gabriel, much disturbed. "But they will pass very near us, and will recognize me or hail us. Oh, let me go in, quick, before they come any nearer! Let me go, I pray!" "No; it is too late!" said Gabriel, detaining her. "To attempt to fly now would be to expose yourself. Come this way, rather,--come up here, my sister!" And followed by the trembling Diane, he hastily mounted a stairway, hidden by a stone buttress, which led to the very walls. There he ensconced Diane and himself between an untenanted sentry-box and the battlements. The patrol passed within twenty paces without seeing them. "Well, this certainly is a poorly guarded point!" said Gabriel, in whom his dominant thought was always on the alert. But his mind at once reverted to Diane, who was hardly at her ease yet. "You may feel safe now, my sister," said he; "the danger is over. But now listen to me, for time passes, and my two burdens are still heavy on my heart. In the first place, you have not told me that you forgive my madness, and so I am still carrying this weary load of the past." "Does one forgive the madness of fever and the ravings of despair?" said Diane. "No, my brother, we must pity and comfort them rather. I bore you no ill-will; no, I wept for you. And now that I see that you are restored to life and reason, I am resigned to the will of God."