"Half an hour," she said, looking wistfully out to sea, "half an hour more and you'll be far from me, Armand! Oh! I can't believe that you are going, dear! These last few days--whilst Percy has been away, and I've had you all to myself, have slipped by like a dream.""I am not going far, sweet one," said the young man gently, "a narrow channel to cross-a few miles of road--I can soon come back.""Nay, `tis not the distance, Armand--but that awful Paris. . .
just now. . ."
They had reached the edge of the cliff. The gentle sea-breeze blew Marguerite's hair about her face, and sent the ends of her soft lace fichu waving round her, like a white and supple snake. She tried to pierce the distance far away, beyond which lay the shores of France: that relentless and stern France which was exacting her pound of flesh, the blood-tax from the noblest of her sons.
"Our own beautiful country, Marguerite," said Armand, who seemed to have divined her thoughts.