“Dunce,” cried Milady, “dunce! who dares to answer for another man, when the wisest, when those most after God’s own heart, hesitate to answer for themselves, and who ranges himself on the side of the strongest and the most fortunate, to crush the weakest and the most unfortunate.”

“Impossible, madame, impossible,” murmured Felton, who felt to the bottom of his heart the justness of this argument.  “A prisoner, you will not recover your liberty through me; living, you will not lose your life through me.”

“Yes,” cried Milady, “but I shall lose that which is much dearer to me than life, I shall lose my honor, Felton; and it is you, you whom I make responsible, before God and before men, for my shame and my infamy.”

This time Felton, immovable as he was, or appeared to be, could not resist the secret influence which had already taken possession of him.  To see this woman, so beautiful, fair as the brightest vision, to see her by turns overcome with grief and threatening; to resist at once the ascendancy of grief and beauty—­it was too much for a visionary; it was too much for a brain weakened by the ardent dreams of an ecstatic faith; it was too much for a heart furrowed by the love of heaven that burns, by the hatred of men that devours.

Milady saw the trouble.  She felt by intuition the flame of the opposing passions which burned with the blood in the veins of the young fanatic.  As a skillful general, seeing the enemy ready to surrender, marches toward him with a cry of victory, she rose, beautiful as an antique priestess, inspired like a Christian virgin, her arms extended, her throat uncovered, her hair disheveled, holding with one hand her robe modestly drawn over her breast, her look illumined by that fire which had already created such disorder in the veins of the young Puritan, and went toward him, crying out with a vehement air, and in her melodious voice, to which on this occasion she communicated a terrible energy: 

“Let this victim to Baal be sent,
To the lions the martyr be thrown! 
Thy God shall teach thee to repent! 
From th’ abyss he’ll give ear to my moan.”

Felton stood before this strange apparition like one petrified.

“Who art thou?  Who art thou?” cried he, clasping his hands.  “Art thou a messenger from God; art thou a minister from hell; art thou an angel or a demon; callest thou thyself Eloa or Astarte?”

“Do you not know me, Felton?  I am neither an angel nor a demon; I am a daughter of earth, I am a sister of thy faith, that is all.”

“Yes, yes!” said Felton, “I doubted, but now I believe.”

“You believe, and still you are an accomplice of that child of Belial who is called Lord de Winter!  You believe, and yet you leave me in the hands of mine enemies, of the enemy of England, of the enemy of God!  You believe, and yet you deliver me up to him who fills and defiles the world with his heresies and debaucheries—­to that infamous Sardanapalus whom the blind call the Duke of Buckingham, and whom believers name Antichrist!”