Sir Andrew had stood in the corridor two days
ago, he bad looked on the window behind which he knew that his
friend must be eating out his noble heart in a longing for
liberty, and he had realised then that every effort at help from
the outside was foredoomed to failure.
"Courage, Lady Blakeney," he said to Marguerite, when anon they
had crossed the Pont au Change, and were wending their way slowly
along the Rue de la Barillerie; "remember our proud dictum: the
Scarlet Pimpernel never fails! and also this, that whatever messages
Blakeney gives you for us, whatever he wishes us to do, we are to a
man ready to do it, and to give our lives for our chief. Courage!
Something tells me that a man like Percy is not going to die at the
hands of such vermin as Chauvelin and his friends."
They had reached the great iron gates of the house of Justice.
Marguerite, trying to smile, extended her trembling band to this
faithful, loyal comrade.
"I'll not be far," he said. "When you come out do not look to the
right or left, but make straight for home; I'll not lose sight of
you for a moment, and as soon as possible will overtake you. God
bless you both."
He pressed his lips on her cold little hand, and watched her tall,
elegant figure as she passed through the great gates until the
veil of falling snow hid her from his gaze.
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