She put back a truant curl from her forehead where it had sought egress to the world, and looked him full in the face now, drawing a deep breath which caused the round of her bosom to lift the lace at her throat.

Then, woman-like, she did the unlocked for, and laughed at him, a low, full ripple of wholesome laughter, which evoked again a wave of color to his sensitive face.

Josephine St.Auban was a prisoner,--a prisoner of state, in fact, and such by orders not understood by herself, although, as she knew very well, a prisoner without due process of law.

Save for this tearful maid who stood yonder, she was alone, friendless.

Her escape, her safety even, lay in her own hands.