With a wild terror in her eyes she turned to Charlot, who stood the very picture of anguish and impotent rage.

In the cortege, where but a few moments ago all had been laughter, a sob or two sounded now from some of the women.
"By my faith," laughed Bellecour contemptuously eyeing their dejection, "you have more the air of a burial than a bridal party." "Mercy my lord!" cried the agonised voice of Charlot, as, distraught with grief, he flung himself before the Marquis.
"Who seeks to harm you, fool ?" was Bellecour's half-derisive rejoinder.
"Do not take her from me, my lord," the young man pleaded piteously.
"She shall return to-morrow, booby," answered the noble.

"Out of the way!" But Charlot was obstinate.

The Marquis might be claiming no more than by ancient law was the due of the Seigneur, but Charlot was by no means minded to submit in craven acquiescence to that brutal, barbarous law.
"My lord," he cried, "you shall not take her.

She is my wife.