For knowing nothing of the fountain from which those tears were springing, and deeming them the expression of a grief pure and unalloyed--saving, perhaps, by a worthy penitence--he stepped swiftly to her side.
"Mademoiselle," he murmured, and his tone was as gentle and beseeching as it had lately been imperious.

"Nay, Mademoiselle, I implore you!" But her tears continued, and her sobs shook the slender frame as if to shatter it.

He dropped upon his knees.

Scarcely knowing what he did, he set his arm about her waist in a caress of protection.
A long curl of her black, unpowdered hair lay against his cheek.
"Mademoiselle," he murmured, and she took comfort at the soothing tone.
From it she judged him malleable now, that had been so stern and unyielding before.

She raised her eyes, and through her tears she turned their heavenly blue full upon the grey depths of his.
"You will not believe me, Monsieur," she complained softly.