Her eyes were again cast down, and she took a step in the direction of the window.
"But yes. Your promise was to save my father from the scaffold. You have done so, and I make no doubt you have done as much to reduce the term of his banishment as lay within your power. Yes, monsieur, I am satisfied that your promise has been well fulfilled."
Heigho! The resolve that I had formed in coming whispered it in my ear that nothing remained but to withdraw and go my way. Yet not for all that resolve--not for a hundred such resolves--could I have gone thus. One kindly word, one kindly glance at least would I take to comfort me. I would tell her in plain words of my purpose, and she should see that there was still some good, some sense of honour in me, and thus should esteem me after I was gone.
"Ganymede." said I.
"Monseigneur?"
"Bid the men mount."
At that she turned, wonder opening her eyes very wide, and her glance travelled from me to Rodenard with its unspoken question. But even as she looked at him he bowed and, turning to do my bidding, left the room. We heard his steps pass with a jingle of spurs across the hall and out into the courtyard. We heard his raucous voice utter a word of command, and there was a stamping of hoofs, a cramping of harness, and all the bustle of preparation.
"Why have you ordered your men to mount?" she asked at last.
"Because my business here is ended, and we are going."
"Going?" said she. Her eyes were lowered now, but a frown suggested their expression to me. "Going whither?"
"Hence," I answered. "That for the moment is all that signifies." I paused to swallow something that hindered a clear utterance. Then, "Adieu!" said I, and I abruptly put forth my hand.
Her glance met mine fearlessly, if puzzled.
"Do you mean, monsieur, that you are leaving Lavedan--thus?"
"So that I leave, what signifies the manner of my going?"
"But"--the trouble grew in her eyes; her cheeks seemed to wax paler than they had been--"but I thought that--that we made a bargain."
"'Sh! mademoiselle, I implore you," I cried. "I take shame at the memory of it. Almost as much shame as I take at the memory of that other bargain which first brought me to Lavedan. The shame of the former one I have wiped out--although, perchance, you think it not. I am wiping out the shame of the latter one. It was unworthy in me, mademoiselle, but I loved you so dearly that it seemed to me that no matter how I came by you, I should rest content if I but won you. I have since seen the error if it, the injustice of it. I will not take what is not freely given. And so, farewell."