She may have been merely framing in her mind the word or two of English she was about to utter; but an excitement shone through her eyes and reddened her lips, and something sent out from her countenance a look of wild distress.
"You goin' tell 'im ?" she asked.
"Who?
Agricola ?" "_Non_!" He spoke the next name more softly.
"Honore ?" Her eyes looked deeply into his for a moment, then dropped, and she made a sign of assent.
He was about to say that Honore knew already, but saw no necessity for doing so, and changed his answer.
"I will never tell any one." "You know ?" she asked, lifting her eyes for an instant.

She meant to ask if he knew the motive that had prompted her murderous intent.
"I know your whole sad history." She looked at him for a moment, fixedly; then, still holding his hand with one of hers, she threw the other to her face and turned away her head.

He thought she moaned.
Thus she remained for a few moments, then suddenly she turned, clasped both hands about his, her face flamed up and she opened her lips to speak, but speech failed.

An expression of pain and supplication came upon her countenance, and the cry burst from her: "Meg 'im to love me!" He tried to withdraw his hand, but she held it fast, and, looking up imploringly with her wide, electric eyes, cried: "_Vous pouvez le faire, vous pouvez le faire_ (You can do it, you can do it); _vous etes sorcier, mo conne bien vous etes sorcier_ (you are a sorcerer, I know)." However harmless or healthful Joseph's touch might be to the philosophe, he felt now that hers, to him, was poisonous.

He dared encounter her eyes, her touch, her voice, no longer.