Ste. Marie was sufficiently wise in worldly matters to know that the boy’s fear was not unfounded.  He could imagine the family in the rue de l’Universite taking exactly the view young Arthur said they would take toward an alliance with the daughter of a notorious Irish adventurer.  Ste. Marie’s cheeks burned hotly with anger when the words said themselves in his brain, but he knew that there could be no doubt of the Benhams’ and even of old David Stewart’s view of the affair.  They would oppose the marriage with all their strength.

He tried to imagine what weight such considerations would have with him if it were he who was to marry Coira O’Hara, and he laughed aloud with scorn of them and with great pride in her.  But the lad yonder was very young—­too young; his family would be right to that extent.  Would he be able to stand against them?

Ste. Marie shook his head with a sigh and gave over unprofitable wonderings, for he was still within the walls of La Lierre, and so was Arthur Benham.  And the walls were high and strong.  He fell to thinking of the attempt at rescue which was to be made that night, and he began to form plans and think of necessary preparations.  To be sure, Coira might persuade the boy to escape during the day, and then the night attack would be unnecessary, but in case of her failure it must be prepared for.  He rose to his feet and began to walk back and forth under the rows of chestnut-trees, where the earth was firm and black and mossy and there was no growth of shrubbery.  He thought of that hasty interview with Richard Hartley and he laughed a little.  It had been rather like an exchange of telegrams—­reduced to the bare bones of necessary question and answer.  There had been no time for conversation.

His eyes caught a far-off glimpse of woman’s garments, and he saw that Coira O’Hara and Arthur Benham were walking toward the house.  So he went a little way after them, and waited at a point where he could see any one returning.  He had not long to wait, for it seemed that the girl went only as far as the door with her fiance and then turned back.

Ste. Marie met her with raised eyebrows, and she shook her head.  “I don’t know,” said she.  “He is very stubborn.  He is frightened and bewildered.  As he said awhile ago, he doesn’t know what to think or what to believe.  You mustn’t blame him.  Remember how he trusted his uncle!  He’s going to think it over, and I shall see him again this afternoon.  Perhaps, when he has had time to reflect—­I don’t know.  I truly don’t know.”

“He won’t go to your father and make a scene?” said Ste. Marie, and the girl shook her head.

“I made him promise not to.  Oh, Bayard,” she cried—­and in his abstraction he did not notice the name she gave him—­“I am afraid myself!  I am horribly afraid about my father.”

“I am sure he did not know,” said the man.  “Stewart lied to him.”