“You mean it?” he said at last.

“I do.”  She looked him in the face as she spoke, and her cheeks were white, not red.  “Only—­the letters!  Give me the letters.”

“And for them you will give me your love?”

Her eyes flickered, and involuntarily she shivered.  A faint blush rose and dyed her cheeks.

“Only God can give love,” she said, her tone low.

“And yours is given?”

“Yes.”

“To another?”

“I have said it.”

“It is his.  And yet for these letters—­”

“For these lives!” she cried proudly.

“You will give yourself?”

“I swear it,” she answered, “if you will give them to me!  If you will give them to me,” she repeated.  And she held out her hands; her face, full of passion, was bright with a strange light.  A close observer might have thought her distraught; still excited by the struggle in the boat, and barely mistress of herself.

But the man whom she tempted, the man who held her price at his belt, after one searching look at her turned from her; perhaps because he could not trust himself to gaze on her.  Count Hannibal walked a dozen paces from her and returned, and again a dozen paces and returned; and again a third time, with something fierce and passionate in his gait.  At last he stopped before her.

“You have nothing to offer for them,” he said, in a cold, hard tone.  “Nothing that is not mine already, nothing that is not my right, nothing that I cannot take at my will.  My word?” he continued, seeing her about to interrupt him.  “True, Madame, you have it, you had it.  But why need I keep my word to you, who tempt me to break my word to the King?”

She made a weak gesture with her hands.  Her head had sunk on her breast—­she seemed dazed by the shock of his contempt, dazed by his reception of her offer.

“You saved the letters?” he continued, interpreting her action.  “True, but the letters are mine, and that which you offer for them is mine also.  You have nothing to offer.  For the rest, Madame,” he went on, eyeing her cynically, “you surprise me!  You, whose modesty and virtue are so great, would corrupt your husband, would sell yourself, would dishonour the love of which you boast so loudly, the love that only God gives!” He laughed derisively as he quoted her words.  “Ay, and, after showing at how low a price you hold yourself, you still look, I doubt not, to me to respect you, and to keep my word.  Madame!” in a terrible voice, “do not play with fire!  You saved my letters, it is true!  And for that, for this time, you shall go free, if God will help me to let you go!  But tempt me not!  Tempt me not!” he repeated, turning from her and turning back again with a gesture of despair, as if he mistrusted the strength of the restraint which he put upon himself.  “I am no more than other men!  Perhaps I am less.  And you—­you who prate of love, and know not what love is—­could love! could love!”