kingdom; but the brand of France!—oh, by that, by that I was branded indeed!”
This was too much for Felton.
Pale, motionless, overwhelmed by this frightful revelation, dazzled by the superhuman beauty of this woman who unveiled herself before him with an immodesty which appeared to him sublime, he ended by falling on his knees before her as the early Christians did before those pure and holy martyrs whom the persecution of the emperors gave up in the circus to the sanguinary sensuality of the populace. The brand disappeared; the beauty alone remained.
“Pardon! Pardon!” cried Felton, “oh, pardon!”
Milady read in his eyes Love! Love!
“Pardon for what?” asked she.
“Pardon me for having joined with your persecutors.”
Milady held out her hand to him.
“So beautiful! so young!” cried Felton, covering that hand with his kisses.
Milady let one of those looks fall upon him which make a slave of a king.
Felton was a Puritan; he abandoned the hand of this woman to kiss her feet.
He no longer loved her; he adored her.
When this crisis was past, when Milady appeared to have resumed her self-possession, which she had never lost; when Felton had seen her