The sky was cloudless, the scene drowsy with the stillness
of an August afternoon. But his words went home so truly that the sunlit
landscape before the eyes added one more horror to the picture he called
up before the mind.
The Countess turned white and sick. "Are you sure?" she whispered at
last.
"Quite sure."
"Ah, God!" she cried, "are we never to have peace?" And turning from the
valley, she walked some distance into the grass court, and stood. After
a time, she turned to him; he had followed her doggedly, pace for pace.
"What do you want me to do?" she cried, despair in her voice. "What can
I do?"
"Were the letters he bears destroyed--"
"The letters?"
"Yes, were the letters destroyed," La Tribe answered relentlessly, "he
could do nothing! Nothing! Without that authority the magistrates of
Angers would not move. He could do nothing. And men and women and
children--men and women and children whose blood will otherwise cry for
vengeance, perhaps for vengeance on us who might have saved them--will
live! Will live!" he repeated, with a softening eye. And with an all-
embracing gesture he seemed to call to witness the open heavens, the
sunshine and the summer breeze which wrapped them round. "Will live!"
She drew a deep breath. "And you have brought me here," she said, "to
ask me to do this?"
"I was sent here to ask you to do this.
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