"Sir Percy Blakeney would not be the trusted, honoured leader
of a score of English gentlemen," said Sir Andrew, proudly, "if he
abandoned those who placed their trust in him. As for breaking his
word, the very thought is preposterous!"
There was silence for a moment or two. Marguerite had buried
her face in her hands, and was letting the tears slowly trickle
through her trembling fingers. The young man said nothing; his heart
ached for this beautiful woman in her awful grief. All along he had
felt the terrible IMPASSE in which her own rash act had plunged them
all. He knew his friend and leader so well, with his reckless daring,
his mad bravery, his worship of his own word of honour. Sir Andrew
knew that Blakeney would brave any danger, run the wildest risks
sooner than break it, and with Chauvelin at his very heels, would make
a final attempt, however desperate, to rescue those who trusted in him.
"Faith, Sir Andrew," said Marguerite at last, making brave
efforts to dry her tears, "you are right, and I would not now shame
myself by trying to dissuade him from doing his duty. As you say, I
should plead in vain.
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