He slunk away, the men with him; and she fell to pacing the roof feverishly.  Now and then she extended her arms, and low cries broke from her, as from a dumb creature in pain.  Wherever she looked, old memories rose up to torment her and redouble her misery.  A thing she could have borne in the outer world, a thing which might have seemed tolerable in the reeking air of Paris or in the gloomy streets of Angers wore here its most appalling aspect.  Henceforth, whatever choice she made, this home, where even in those troublous times she had known naught but peace, must bear a damning stain!  Henceforth this day and this hour must come between her and happiness, must brand her brow, and fix her with a deed of which men and women would tell while she lived!  Oh, God—­pray?  Who said, pray?

“I!” And La Tribe with tears in his eyes held out the keys to her.  “I, Madame,” he continued solemnly, his voice broken with emotion.  “For in man is no help.  The strongest man, he who rode yesterday a master of men, a very man of war in his pride and his valour—­see him, now, and—­”

“Don’t!” she cried, sharp pain in her voice.  “Don’t!” And she stopped him with her hand, her face averted.  After an interval, “You come from him?” she muttered faintly.

“Yes.”

“Is he—­hurt to death, think you?” She spoke low, and kept her face hidden from him.

“Alas, no!” he answered, speaking the thought in his heart.  “The men who are with him seem confident of his recovery.”

“Do they know?”

“Badelon has had experience.”

“No, no.  Do they know of this?” she cried.  “Of this!” And she pointed with a gesture of loathing to the black gibbet on the farther strand.

He shook his head.  “I think not,” he muttered.  And after a moment, “God help you!” he added fervently.  “God help and guide you, Madame!”

She turned on him suddenly, fiercely.  “Is that all you can do?” she cried.  “Is that all the help you can give?  You are a man.  Go down, lead them out; drive off these cowards who drain our life’s blood, who trade on a woman’s heart!  On them!  Do something, anything, rather than lie in safety here—­here!”

The minister shook his head sadly.  “Alas, Madame!” he said, “to sally were to waste life.  They outnumber us three to one.  If Count Hannibal could do no more than break through last night, with scarce a man unwounded—­”

“He had the women!”

“And we have not him!”

“He would not have left us!” she cried hysterically.

“I believe it.”

“Had they taken me, do you think he would have lain behind walls?  Or skulked in safety here, while—­while—­” Her voice failed her.

He shook his head despondently.

“And that is all you can do?” she cried, and turned from him, and to him again, extending her arms, in bitter scorn.  “All you will do?  Do you forget that twice he spared your life?  That in Paris once, and once in Angers, he held his hand?  That always, whether he stood or whether he fled, he held himself between us and harm?  Ay, always?  And who will now raise a hand for him?  Who?”