The business of the drawings brought Raoul to Bayfield almost daily, and, as she had foreseen, they were much alone.

After all, since it could end in nothing, the situation had its advantages; no one in the household gave it a thought, apparently.  Dorothea was not altogether sure about Polly; once or twice she had caught Polly eying her with an odd expression—­once especially, when she had looked up as the girl was plaiting her hair, and their eyes met in the glass.  And once again Dorothea had sent her to the library with a note of instructions left that morning by Narcissus, and, following a few minutes later, had found her standing and talking with M. Raoul in an attitude which, without being familiar, was not quite respectful.

“What was she saying?” her mistress asked, a moment or two later.

“Oh, nothing,” he answered negligently.  “I suppose that class of person cannot be troubled to show respect to prisoners.”

That evening Dorothea rated the girl soundly for her pertness.  “And I shall speak to Zeally,” she threatened, “if anything of the kind happens again.  If Mr. Endymion is to let you two have a house when you marry, and take in the Frenchmen as lodgers, he will want to know that you treat them respectfully.”

Polly wept, and was forgiven.

April, May, June, went by, and still Dorothea lived in her dream, troubled only by dread of the day which must bring her lover’s task to an end, and, with it, his almost daily visits.  Bit by bit she learned his story.  He told her of Arles, his birthplace, with its Roman masonry and amphitheatre; of a turreted terraced chateau and a family of aristocrats lording it among the vineyards; conspiring a little later with other noble families, entertaining them at secret meetings of the Chiffonne, where oaths were taken; later again, defending itself behind barricades of paving-stones; last of all, marched or carried in batches to the guillotine or the fusillade.  He told of Avignon and its Papal Castle overhanging the Rhone, the city where he had spent his school days, and at the age of nine had seen Patriot L’Escuyer stabbed to death in the Cordeliers’ Church with women’s scissors; had seen Jourdan, the avenger, otherwise Coupe-tete, march flaming by at the head of his brave brigands d’Avignon.  He told of the sequel, the hundred and thirty men, women and babes slaughtered in the dungeon of the Glaciere; of Choisi’s Dragoons and Grenadiers at the gates, and how, with roses scattered before them, they marched through the streets to the Castle, entered the gateway and paused, brought to a stand by the stench of putrefying flesh.  He and his school mates had taken a holiday—­their master being in hiding—­to see the bodies lifted out.  Also he had seen the search party ride out through the gates and return again, bringing Jourdan, with feet strapped beneath his horse’s belly.  He told of his journey to, Paris—­his