At first Aurore had made futile efforts to free herself from André's grasp. Then, feeling helpless, she gave up the struggle, whereupon he immediately released her wrist. She turned at once to the door.

"Open, M. l'Abbé!" she called. "I must find Monseigneur."

The priest would have obeyed, but André barred the way.

"I said that I would look after Marigny," he said curtly. "You stay here with her."

Aurore's hand was on the door knob.

"Wait here, M. l'Abbé," she said, "while I speak with Monseigneur."

André was quite close to her, looking down on her half quizzically, yet wholly in scorn. She threw back her head and returned his mocking glance with defiance and cold contempt, and when he put his hand over hers she withdrew it quickly, as if she had been touched by some noisome animal. A grim smile curled round André's set lips.

"If you go out through this door," he said coolly, "it means death to your father, to this priest, to your servants and to you."

Defiance in her eyes gave way to horror. She did not know what had become of her father. The turmoil in the next room had subsided to such an extent that she had not realized there was still danger there from the crowd. This male ruffian here, with his brute strength and mocking ways, seemed to be the only living creature that she need fear. Apparently he had divined her thoughts, for without another word he turned the knob and gently opened the door. A murmur of many voices came to Aurore's ears. There were no longer any shouts, no imprecations or threats - only that steady murmur, and now and then a laugh. Just as the moment a man's voice rose above the rest, and a phrase, coarse and hideously offensive, accompanied by a cruel laugh, brought a blush of indignation and of shame to the girl's face. It suffused her cheeks, her forehead to the roots of her hair; only her lips remained bloodless. The glance which she cast up at André was almost one of appeal.

Miserable and helpless, she gazed round the room, longing to find something - weapon, anything wherewith to end this terrible situation. Again he seemed to divine her thoughts, gave a light laugh and a shrug, then pointed to one of the chairs across which lay Monseigneur's elegant sword, with its jewelled hilt and chiselled scabbard. As she made no movement - indeed, she could not have moved a limb just then - he went over to the chair and picked up the sword. He made pretense to examine it; with his one hand he worked the blade out of the scabbard, and with that irritating, quizzical glance of his held the hilt out to her.
"Will this answer your purpose?" he asked.

Strangely fascinated by that blade from which, at the moment, the evening light drew dull fantastic rays, she raised her hand and took hold of the hilt. Here was the weapon to her hand: what should she do with it? The brute stood there, waiting and mocking: oh, for the strength to plunge this blade into his cruel, callous heart!

"Aurore, my child!" the priest exclaimed, for, acting on blind impulse, Aurore had stretched out her arm and was holding the point of the blade to her throat.

"Let her be, Citizen Curé," André said coolly. "Reason has already told her that with her death my wish to save her father - and you - will vanish. Look, what did I tell you? Even proud ladies listen to reason sometimes. And, anyhow, that sword was both futile and ridiculous."

The sword fell out of Aurore's hand. Futile and ridiculous! How true and how humiliating! Helpless, hopeless, and ashamed, she buried her face in her hands.

"André, my son!" the priest entreated, "you must have pity on us all."

"Pity?" André retorted lightly. "Pardi! Am I not showing you all pity of which any man is capable? Have I not snatched her and her miserable father, and you, my good friend, out of the jaws of death? Has not my pity for her stayed the murderous hand of our friend Tarbot and saved her from outrage?"

"Yes, my son," the Curé admitted, "and of a certainty God will reward you; but surely you do not intend to carry your cruel intention to its end?"

"What cruel intention? I have no other intention with regard to this wench save to take her for wife."

"But, André, my son, that is impossible."

"Impossible? Why?"

"Look at her, my child. Does she look like the wife of-"

"-of a rapscallion?" André broke in with a sneer. "That is as may be and for her to decide. If the prospect is so very displeasing, all she need do is to open this door and let the rest of the canaille have its way with her, with her father, her servants, and with you."

Then, as neither Aurore nor the Curé spoke another word, he went on, with an impatient shrug:

"Perhaps you are right, Citizen Curé: the scheme will not work. It is impossible, as you say, and I'd better let our friend Tarbot have his way with you all."

Once more he turned to the door; but it was Aurore this time who barred the way. A dull, half-choked cry came involuntarily from her throat:

"No! no!"

She put out her hand, and he seized it.

"Ah!" he said with a sigh of satisfaction, "reason has spoke more loudly this time. Well! which is it to be, my fine lady? Death at the hand of Tarbot or marriage with the canaille?"

The grip on her waist was like a tentacle of steel, but she welcomed the physical pain almost as a solace to the mental agony of the moment. She would not look at him, but turned appealing eyes to the old priest, who, of a truth, could offer neither advice nor consolation. It was for her to decide and he, for one, was content to leave it all in the hands of his Maker. He clasped his hands and prayed as he had never prayed before.

"Look at me, Aurore," André commanded. "The decision rests with you and not with the priest."

With what seemed like a refinement of cruelty, he once more gently opened the door. they were still laughing and jeering out there.

"My father!" she murmured.

And then added under her breath:

"For his sake, if you'll sear-"

She could say no more, for she was on the point of swooning. André's powerful arm encircled her drooping body, while an immense sigh of satisfaction rose from his breast.

"Par Dieu!" he said lightly. "I had no idea you were so beautiful, ma mie!"

And of a truth she was exquisitely beautiful, with those deep, unfathomable eyes of hers filled with terror and with hate, her red lips parted in a final appeal for mercy. She had been on the point of swooning, but now that he raised her to him - that she saw his face, his dark eyes, his cruel, sneering mouth closer and ever closer, a moment's consciousness returned to her with the horror of it all.

"Let me go!" she gasped. "I hate you!"

"Of course you do, my dear," he retorted. "We hate each other - that is understood. But Fate has decided to link us together until, like two wildcats, we shall have torn one another's soul to shreds. In the meanwhile, in the presence of our friend, the Citizen Curé, we will seal our mutual promise to one another with a kiss."

She felt helpless and stifled as his arm held her closer and closer; with her two hands she tried to push against him - his face, his breast. But her struggles only seemed to amuse him; his eyes flashed mockery instead of passion, while they seemed to search the very depths of her soul.

"You are beautiful!" he reiterated slowly - very slowly - while those mocking eyes of his drank in every detail of her loveliness: her blue-veined lids, her perfect mouth, the exquisite contour of throat and chin. "You are beautiful, but, on second thoughts, ma mie, I'll not kiss you yet. Not to-day. I'll wait," he added with a light laugh, "till those perfect lips ask mine for a kiss."

And suddenly he slackened his hold on her, lifted her off the ground, and carried her to the sofa. He called peremptorily to Jeannette, who was whimpering under cover of her apron, and ordered her to look after her mistress.

Then, without another word, he strode out of the room.