She tried
to pierce the distance far away, beyond which lay the shores of
France: that relentless and stern France which was exacting her pound
of flesh, the blood-tax from the noblest of her sons.
"Our own beautiful country, Marguerite," said Armand, who
seemed to have divined her thoughts.
"They are going too far, Armand," she said vehemently. "You
are a republican, so am I. . .we have the same thoughts, the same
enthusiasm for liberty and equality. . .but even YOU must think that
they are going too far. . ."
"Hush!--" said Armand, instinctively, as he threw a quick,
apprehensive glance around him.
"Ah! you see: you don't think yourself that it is safe even to
speak of these things--here in England!" She clung to him suddenly
with strong, almost motherly, passion: "Don't go, Armand!" she begged;
"don't go back! What should I do if. . .if. . .if. . ."
Her voice was choked in sobs, her eyes, tender, blue and
loving, gazed appealingly at the young man, who in his turn looked
steadfastly into hers.
"You would in any case be my own brave sister," he said
gently, "who would remember that, when France is in peril, it is not
for her sons to turn their backs on her.
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