“And this Naladi—­does she treat you well?”

The swift color mounted into her clear cheeks.

“Not ill, so far, at least, as relates to the physical,” she responded gravely.  “No hand has been angrily laid upon me since I was dragged forth from the altar-house.  Yet there are other forms of torture; and she constantly mocks me with my helplessness, and, I believe, even hates me for no better reason than that I stand between her and the Chevalier.”

“You have seen him?”

“No; but have heard his voice while he held private converse with her, the shameless wanton; have listened to words ill suited to the ears of a wife.  She is a witch, and the slumbering devil in her has made snare for his weakness.”

“I greatly fear there may be truth in this,” I returned, scarcely knowing how best to speak at such a time, marking the agitation of her breathing.  “Naladi is a fair woman, softly spoken and seductive when it is her purpose to please.  There are not many men who could resist her wiles.  Yet possibly, Madame, were you to have converse with the Chevalier your plea might break the spell.”

She turned toward me with proud, impetuous gesture, and I was surprised at the sudden indignant light glowing within her dark eyes.

“No, Geoffrey Benteen, that will never be.  I am this man’s wife.  He has vowed himself to me before the sacred altar of Holy Church.  Think you that I, a lady born of France, would abase myself to beseech his loyalty?  Not though life or death hung upon the issue!  If he can cast me aside for the caresses of this savage harlot, he may forever go his way; never will my hand halt him, or my voice claim his allegiance.  I am his wife before God; to the end I will be true unto my solemn pledges to Holy Church; yet I hope never to look again upon the false face of Charles de Noyan.”

“Are you not over-hasty in such decision?” I ventured, conscious of a gladness in my own heart at her impulsive speech.  “Possibly this is a mere passing whim, an idle fancy; he may yet emerge from the craze purified by trial.”

She looked hard at me, as if seeking to penetrate the flimsy mask I wore, and I beheld a pride in her uplifted face such as had never been visible there before.

“Such might be the way with some women,” she returned firmly.  “I am of a race to whom honor is everything.  My father gave his life for no less, and I hold him right in his choice.  I may forgive much of wrong—­ay! have forgiven—­yet the stain of dishonor now rests upon the proud name I bear, and that can never be forgiven.  Whether in New Orleans, or the heart of this wilderness, I am still Eloise Lafreniere, the daughter of a gentleman of France.  I would die by the torture of these savages before I would surrender the honor due my race.”

There was that in her proud speech silencing my tongue from further expostulation, even had I believed De Noyan deserved a defender.  He had deliberately chosen his path, now let him follow it; any man who would thus lightly tread on the heart of such a woman was clearly outside the radius of human sympathy, deserving to be.  Certainly I felt no call to stand between him and his fate.