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Pierre quietly caught her about the waist, and shut the door. She recovered, and gently disengaged herself. He made no further advance, and they stood looking at each other for a minute: he, as one who had come to look at something good he was never to see again; she, as at something she hoped to see for ever. They had never before been where no eyes could observe them. He ruled his voice to calmness.

“I am going away,” he said, “and I have come to say good-bye.”

Her eyes never wavered from his. Her voice was scarce above a whisper.

“Why do you go? Where are you going?”

“I have been here too long. I am what they call a villain and a plunderer. I am going to-mon Dieu, I do not know!” He shrugged his shoulders, and smiled with a sort of helpless disdain.

She leaned her hands on the table before her. Her voice was still that low, clear murmur.

“What people say doesn’t matter.” She staked her all upon her words. She must speak them, though she might hate herself afterwards. “Are you going–alone?”

“Where I may have to go I must travel alone.”

He could not meet her eyes now; he turned his head away. He almost hoped she would not understand. “Sit down,” he added; “I want to tell you of my life.”

He believed that telling it as he should, she would be horror-stricken, and that the deep flame would die out of her eyes. Neither he nor she knew how long they sat there, he telling with grim precision of the life he had led. Her hands were clasped before her, and she shuddered once or twice, so that he paused; but she asked him firmly to go on.

When all was told he stood up. He could not see her face, but he heard her say:

“You have forgotten many things that were not bad. Let me say them.” She named things that would have done honour to a better man. He was standing in the moonlight that came through the window. She stepped forward, her hands quivering out to him. “Oh, Pierre,” she said, “I know why you tell me this: but it makes no difference-none! I will go with you wherever you go.”

He caught her hands in his. She was stronger than he was now. Her eyes mastered him. A low cry broke from him, and he drew her almost fiercely into his arms.

“Pierre! Pierre!” was all she could say.

He kissed her again and again upon the mouth. As he did so, he heard footsteps and muffled voices without. Putting her quickly from him, he sprang towards the door, threw it open, closed it behind him, and drew his revolvers. A half-dozen men faced him. Two bullets whistled by his head, and lodged in the door. Then he fired swiftly, shot after shot, and three men fell. His revolvers were empty. There were three men left. The case seemed all against him now, but just here a shot, and then another, came from the window, and a fourth man fell. Pierre sprang upon one, the other turned and ran. There was a short sharp struggle: then Pierre rose up–alone.

The girl stood in the doorway. “Come, my dear,” he said, “you must go with me now.”

“Yes, Pierre,” she cried, a mad light in her face, “I have killed men too–for you.”

Together they ran down the hillside, and made for the stables of the Fort. People were hurrying through the long street of the town, and torches were burning, but they came by a roundabout to the stables safely. Pierre was about to enter, when a man came out. It was Liddall. He kept his horses there, and he had saddled one, thinking that Pierre might need it.

There were quick words of explanation, and then, “Must the girl go too?” he asked. “It will increase the danger–besides–“

“I am going wherever he goes,” she interrupted hoarsely. “I have killed men; he and I are the same now.”