CHAPTER XXIII The Hostage.
Chauvelin, without speaking, extended his hand out towards the city as if to invite Marguerite to gaze upon it.
She was quite unconscious what hour of the night it might be, but it must have been late, for the little town, encircled by the stony arms of its forts, seemed asleep.

The moon, now slowly sinking in the west, edged the towers and spires with filmy lines of silver.

To the right Marguerite caught sight of the frowning Beffroi, which even as she gazed out began tolling its heavy bell.

It sounded like the tocsin, dull and muffled.

After ten strokes it was still.
Ten o'clock! At this hour in far-off England, in fashionable London, the play was just over, crowds of gaily dressed men and women poured out of the open gates of the theatres calling loudly for attendant or chaise.
Thence to balls or routs, gaily fluttering like so many butterflies, brilliant and irresponsible....
And in England also, in the beautiful gardens of her Richmond home, ofttimes at ten o'clock she had wandered alone with Percy, when he was at home, and the spirit of adventure in him momentarily laid to rest.
Then, when the night was very dark and the air heavy with the scent of roses and lilies, she lay quiescent in his arms in that little arbour beside the river.