In a bound I was beside her, and I had gathered her in my arms, her
little brown head against my shoulder.
"Roxalanne!" I whispered as soothingly as I might - "Roxalanne!"
But she struggled to be free of my embrace.
"Let me go, monsieur," she pleaded, a curious shrinking in her very
voice. "Do not touch me, monsieur. You do not know - you do not
know."
For answer, I enfolded her more tightly still.
"But I do know, little one," I whispered; "and I even understand."
At that, her struggles ceased upon the instant, and she seemed to
lie limp and helpless in my arms.
"You know, monsieur," she questioned me - "you know that I betrayed
you?"
"Yes," I answered simply.
"And you can forgive me? I am sending you to your death and you
have no reproaches for me! Oh, monsieur, it will kill me!"
"Hush, child!" I whispered. "What reproaches can I have for you?
I know the motives that impelled you."
"Not altogether, monsieur; you cannot know them. I loved you,
monsieur. I do love you, monsieur. Oh! this is not a time to
consider words. If I am bold and unmaidenly, I - I--"
"Neither bold nor unmaidenly, but - oh, the sweetest damsel in all
France, my Roxalanne!" I broke in, coming to her aid. "Mine was a
leprous, sinful soul, child, when I came into Languedoc. I had no
faith in any human good, and I looked as little for an honest man
or a virtuous woman as one looks for honey in a nettle. I was
soured, and my life had hardly been such a life as it was meet to
bring into contact with your own.
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