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Runkle, Bertha, 1879-1958

"Helmet of Navarre"


The cell was small, with one high window through which I could see
naught but the sky. For all furniture it contained a pallet, a stool, a
bench that might serve as table. M. Etienne stood at the window, his arm
crooked around the iron bars, gazing out over the roofs of Paris.
He wheeled about at the door's creaking.
"I go to trial, monsieur?" he asked quickly, not seeing me behind the
keeper.
"No, M. le Comte. The charge is cancelled. I come to set you free."
I dashed in past the officer, snatching my lord's hand to kiss.
"It's true, monsieur! You're free! It's all settled with Mayenne.
Monsieur's seen him; he sets you free. He said, 'In recognizance of
Wednesday night.'"
Incredulous joy flashed over his face, to give way to belief without
joy.
"Now I know she's married."
"Nothing of the sort!" I fairly shouted at him, dancing up and down in
my eagerness. "She's to marry M. le Comte. She's at St. Denis with
Monsieur. She's to marry you. It's all arranged. Mayenne consents--the
king--everybody. It's all settled. She marries you."
Preposterous as it seemed, he could not discredit my fervour. He
followed us out of the cell and through the fortress in a radiant daze.
He half believed himself dreaming, I think, and feared to speak lest his
happiness should melt. I fancied even that he walked lightly and
gingerly, as if the slightest unwary movement might break the spell.


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