The League of the Scarlet Pimpernel

When she reopened her eyes she was in what appeared to be the lodge of a concierge. Shewas lying on a horsehair sofa. There was a sense of warmth and of security around her. Nowonder that it still seemed like a dream. Before her stood a man, tall and straight, surely abeing from another world-or so he appeared to the poor wretch who, since uncountabletime, had set eyes on none but the most miserable dregs of struggling humanity, who hadseen little else but rags, and faces either cruel or wretched. This man was clad in a hugecaped coat, which made his powerful figure seem preternaturally large. His hair was fairand slightly curly above his low, square brow; the eyes beneath their heavy lids lookeddown on her with unmistakable kindness. The poor woman struggled to her feet. With a quick and pathetically humble gesture shedrew her ragged, muddy skirts over her ankles and her tattered kerchief across her breast."I had best go now, Monsieur ... citizen," she murmured, while a hot flush rose to the rootsof her unkempt hair. "I must not stop here.... I-""You are not going, Madame," he broke in, speaking now in perfect French and with a greatair of authority, as one who is accustomed to being implicitly obeyed, "until you have toldme how, a lady of culture and of refinement, comes to be masquerading as a street-dancer. The game is a dangerous one, as you have experienced to-night.""It is no game, Monsieur ... citizen," she stammered; "nor yet a masquerade. I have been astreet-dancer all my life, and-"By way of an answer he took her hand, always with that air of authority which she neverthought to resent."This is not a street-dancer's hand; Madame," he said quietly. "Nor is your speech that ofthe people."She drew her hand away quickly, and the flush on her haggard face deepened."If you will honour me with your confidence, Madame," he insisted.