Pradel and Cécile were alone.

They were both silent. Constrained. She wanted to say something to him, but somehow the words would not come. She knew so little about this man who had, as a matter of fact, saved her reason. At one moment during this wild saraband she had felt as if she were going mad. Then he had come and a sense of security had descended into her soul. But why she should have felt comforted, she couldn't say. She knew that he loved her, at any rate had loved her until that awful hour when he had suffered a terrible outrage at her brother's hands. He couldn't continue to love her after that. Could not. He must hate her and all her family. But if he did, why had he come running all the way from Choisy and stopped this hysterical multitude from doing her bodily harm? There was no ignoring the fact that he had come running along all the way from Choisy, and that he had saved her and maman and François from disaster. Then why did he look so aloof, so entirely indifferent? His face was quite expressionless; only that horrid scar showed up on his pale forehead. She hated the sight of that scar, but couldn't help looking at it and thinking: "How he must hate us all!" Of course, he belonged to the party that deposed the King and proclaimed the Republic; that, in fact, was François's chief grievance against him. She had never heard him discuss politics, and she and maman lived such a secluded life she didn't know much of what went on. She hated all murderers and regicides-oh! regicides above all!-but somehow she didn't believe that Pradel was one of these. Even before the beginnings of this awful revolution he had always spent most of his time-and people said half his private fortune-in doing good to the needy and keeping up the children's hospital in Choisy. Cécile knew all that. She had even done her best in a small way in the past to help him with some of his charitable work when knowledge of it came her way. No, no, a man of that type was no murderer, no regicide. But it was all very puzzling. Especially as he neither spoke nor moved, apparently leaving the initiative to her.

At last she was able to take it. She mastered her absurd diffidence and steadied her voice as best she could.

"I wish I knew how to thank you, Monsieur le Docteur," she said. "You saved my reason. I think if you had not interfered when you did I should have gone mad."

"Not so bad as that, citizeness, I think," he responded with the ghost of a smile.

Cécile liked his smile. It was kind. But she hated his calling her "citizeness." She stiffened at the word and went on more coolly:

"You have remarkable influence over the people here. They love you."

"They are not a bad crowd really," he said and then added after a second's pause: "Not yet."

"It is strange how they followed that fiddler. Did you see him?"

"Yes!"

"To me he did not seem human. More like a giant out of a fairy-tale. Did you hear what that funny little man in black said to him?"

"I heard, Citizeness. But, unfortunately, I did not understand. He spoke in English, I think."

"Yes! and he called the fiddler 'my valiant Scarlet Pimpernel.'"

"What is that?"

"You have never heard of the Scarlet Pimpernel?"

"Only as a mythical personage."

"He really does exist though. It was he, who-"

She paused abruptly, for she had been on the point of naming the Abbé Edgeworth and his escape from La Rodière. No news of the safety of the old priest had as yet been received and until it was definitely known that he was safe in Belgium, the secret of the escape must on no account be revealed. To Cécile's astonishment, however, Pradel himself alluded to it.

"Who engineered the escape of our mutual friend, Abbé Edgeworth, you mean?"

"You knew?"

"I only guessed."

"And I can tell you definitely that it was the English spy whom they call the Scarlet Pimpernel who made every arrangement for the abbé's safety."

"Then why do you call him a spy? An ugly word, meseems, for the noble work which he does."

"You are right there, Monsieur le Docteur. It is always fine to serve your country, or to serve humanity in whichever way seems to you best. I only used the word 'spy' because the Scarlet Pimpernel, so I have heard said, is never seen as himself, but always in disguise. That is why I thought that the fiddler-"

"Yes, Citizeness?"

She shook her head.

"No, no," she said, "it can't be. He made no attempt to save me from those awful women. I suppose he does not think that we up here are in immediate danger. Do you think that we are?" she added abruptly and raised eyes shining with sudden fear up at Pradel.

He made no reply. What could he say? As a matter of fact it was all over Choisy that the arrest of the aristos up at La Rodière was only a question of hours. That was why he had come running up to the château, not so much in terror for her of a boisterous crowd, as of the decree of the Committee of Public Safety, and the inevitable Gendarmerie Nationale.

"I don't mind for myself," Cécile went on after a moment or two, but maman and . . . and . . . François . . . I know you hate him, and I dare say he deserves your hatred. But he is my brother . . . and maman . . . You don't think they would dare do anything to maman? . . . do you?"

She couldn't go on for tears were choking her. She turned away, half ashamed that he should see those tears, and walked across to the window. She stood in the embrasure for a time looking out at first into vacancy, then gradually becoming aware of what was going on down below. The perron and the long avenue were all thronged with that same abominable multitude who had insulted and humiliated her before the advent of Pradel. They were all going away in a body now, quite good-tempered, rather noisy, still singing and shouting. The shades of evening were drawing in fast. It was close on five o'clock, and they were all going home ready to tell of their many adventures to the workers when they came out of the factories, and to the few who had not been fortunate enough to join in the revels of this memorable afternoon. Five o'clock and it was half-past three when first that unruly mass of humanity had invaded the château. One hour and a half of mental torture. To Cécile it seemed an eternity. And now they were going away. Silence would once more reign in the ancestral home of the La Rodières, silence but not peace, for terror of death would from this hour be always present within its walls, the nameless dread which holds its greatest sway o' nights, banishes sleep, and rears its head at every chance word spoken by careless lips: arrest, denunciation, imprisonment, the guillotine.

The guillotine! In a way one had dreaded it for years, but only in a vague way, as something horrible that happened to others, to one's friends, even to one's King, but not to oneself. But now here it was, as it were, at one's very door. And there was maman to think of who was old, and François who was rash. . . .

"Citizeness!"

Citizeness! Another of those chance words that brought the nameless dread striking at one's heart. It roused Cécile de la Rodière out of her sombre mood. The noise of the crowd below was growing fainter and fainter. Most of the rioters were out of sight already. They had gone quietly enough, and now only a few laggards, men who were lame and women who were feeble, could be seen making their way down the avenue in the fast gathering gloom.

"Citizeness!"

The voice was kindly, rather hoarse, perhaps, and authoritative, but kindly nevertheless. Pradel had come up close to her. He it was who had spoken the chance word. Cécile turned to him.