And he laughed derisively.
"Your gratitude!" And he mocked her tone rudely and coarsely.

"Your gratitude!" Then for a minute--for so long a time that she began to wonder and to quake--he was silent.

At last, "A fig for your gratitude," he said.

"I want your love! I suppose--cold as you are, and a Huguenot--you can love like other women!" It was the first, the very first time he had used the word to her; and though it fell from his lips like a threat, though he used it as a man presents a pistol, she flushed anew from throat to brow.

But she did not quail.
"It is not mine to give," she said.
"It is his ?" "Yes, Monsieur," she answered, wondering at her courage, at her audacity, her madness.