"It is true."
"Would you honestly tell me why?" and she turned her eyes, looking searchingly into mine.
"I have mentioned sufficient reasons," I ventured, resolutely facing her, determined to speak frankly and abide the result. "All I need add is, to my judgment it will prove better for you to remain with your husband."
She glanced aside at him where he lay, the quick blood flushing her clear cheek.
"You do not like him?" the question fell faltering from her lips.
"That I am not prepared to declare. He is changeable, somewhat overbearing in speech, not as sober of mind as I am accustomed to find men, yet it is not true I dislike him. I merely believe that he will do better, be truer to his manhood, with you near him, than with you absent."
"He is French," she explained gently, "by nature of birth different from your race. Besides, he has led a life filled with the dissipation of the town."
"True! for that reason I forbear judging his words and actions by any standard of my own people. Yet this I cannot be blind to, Madame; he is of quick temper, hasty in action, easily influenced by others, and might become careless at times, and under strong temptation, unless some moral firmness hold him in check. You alone possess the power to become his good angel."
She bowed her head, her gaze again far off upon the river, the deepening surge of color rising upon either cheek.
"You cannot be angry," I continued gravely, after pausing vainly for a reply. "Surely I have said no more than you already knew, and I spoke merely in answer to your questioning."
"No, I am not angry. But it is not a pleasant reflection underlying the things mentioned, and I cannot assert your judgment of the Chevalier false. Still I would press you further. Is this your only reason for desiring me to remain?"
"You wish me to answer frankly?"
"Otherwise I should not ask."
I felt the quick flush mount even to my hair, yet gripped my breath, making effort to respond boldly.
"I had other reason. To deny it would be merely uttering a lie to no purpose. Madame de Noyan, we are not strangers--we could never be after that night when we parted beneath the olives of Monsieur Beaujen's garden. You are wife to a chevalier of France; I, a homeless adventurer. Yet I have no higher ambition than to prove of service to you. Whatever I have accomplished has been entirely for your sake, not for his. Now we are together, the daily opportunity to serve you is mine; here I can work for you, perchance die for you, should such sacrifice promise you happiness. But if you decide to go back yonder, directly into danger as desperate as any confronting us to the northward, then I must determine for myself where I can serve you best. Knowing my heart as you must, you can easily judge whether I would plunge deeper into the wilderness with your husband, or return to New Orleans with you. There is a sentence in the Bible about the impossibility of serving two masters, hence I trust I may not be compelled to choose between, until the hour when you are both safe."