said Berenger, impelled to speak as tenderly
as he could of the enemy, who had certainly tortured him, but as if he
loved him.

'He bade us save you,' said Diane, her eyes shining with strange wild
light in the gloom. 'He laid it on my aunt and me to save you; you must
let us. It must be done before my brother comes,' she added, in hurried
accents. 'The messengers are gone; he may be here any moment. He must
find you in the chapel--as--as my betrothed!'

'And you sent for me here to tempt me--close to such a chamber as that?'
demanded Berenger, his gentleness becoming sternness, as much with his
own worse self as with her.

'Listen. Ah! it is the only way. Listen, cousin. Do you know what killed
my father? It was my brother's letter saying things must be brought to
an end: either you must be given up to the King, or worse--worse. And
now, without him to stand between you and my brother, you are lost. Oh!
take pity on his poor soul that has left his body, and bring not you
blood on his head.'

'Nay,' said Berenger, 'if he repented, the after consequences to me will
have no effect on him now.'

'Have pity then on yourself--on your brother.'

'I have,' said Berenger. 'He had rather die with me than see me a
traitor.'

'And least of all,' she exclaimed, with choking grief, 'have you
compassion on me!--on me who have lost the only one who felt for me--on
me who have loved you with every fibre of my heart--on me who have lived
on the music of your hardest, coldest word--on me who would lay my life,
my honour, in the dust for one grateful glance from you--and whom you
condemn to the anguish of--your death! Aye, and for what? For the mere
shadow of a little girl, who had no force to love you, or whom you know
nothing--nothing! Oh! are you a crystal rock or are you a man? See, I
kneel to you to save yourself and me.'

There were hot tears dropping from Berenger's eyes as he caught Diane's
hand, and held it forcibly to prevent her thus abasing herself. Her wild
words and gestures thrilled him in every pulse and wrung his h