Insult me, if you please, but at least speak." "And do you, madame," said the comte, gently, as he drew his sword, "thrust this sword into my heart, rather than kill me by slow degrees." At the look he fixed upon her--a look full of love, resolution, and despair even--she knew how readily the comte, so outwardly calm in appearance, would pass his sword through his own breast if she added another word.

She tore the blade from his hands, and pressing his arm with a feverish impatience, which might pass for tenderness, said-- "Do not be too hard with me, comte.

You see how I am suffering, and you have no pity for me." Tears, which were the last crisis of the attack, stifled her voice.

As soon as De Guiche saw her weep, he took her in his arms and carried her to an armchair; in another moment she would have been suffocated from suppressed passion.
"Oh, why," he murmured, as he knelt by her side, "why do you conceal your troubles from me?
Do you love any one--tell me?
It would kill me, I know, but not until after I should have comforted, consoled, and served you even." "And do you love me to that extent ?" she replied, completely conquered.
"I do indeed love you to that extent, madame." She placed both her hands in his.

"My heart is indeed another's," she murmured in so low a tone that her voice could hardly be heard; but he heard it, and said, "Is it the king you love ?" She gently shook her head, and her smile was like a clear bright streak in the clouds, through which, after the tempest had passed away, one almost fancies Paradise is opening.