"And so," he said with bitter sarcasm, "the murderous dog of the revolution is turning upon the very hands that fed it?. . .Begad, Madame," he added very gently, as Marguerite continued to sob hysterically, "will you dry your tears?. . .I never could bear to see a pretty woman cry, and I. . ."Instinctively, with sudden overmastering passion at the sight of her helplessness and of her grief, he stretched out his arms, and the next, would have seized her and held her to him, protected from every evil with his very life, his very heart's blood. . . . But pride had the better of it in this struggle once again; he restrained himself with a tremendous effort of will, and said coldly, though still very gently,--"Will you not turn to me, Madame, and tell me in what way Imay have the honour to serve you?"
