"Who's that--who's that," said she, raising her head upon her pillow.
The window curtains of the room were hardly closed, and she recognised
immediately Henri's tall figure, and singular costume. "Oh! Henri, what
has happened? what brings you here?"
"Rise, dearest, we must fly," said he: "we have not a moment--we fear
the blues are coming." He dreaded that she would have lost all power of
motion, had he told her that they were already beneath the windows.
"Haven't I time to dress?" said she; "I won't be a moment--not one
minute."
"No, darling," answered he, raising her from the bed, as though she were
an infant, and folding her in her brother's cloak. "We haven't one
instant to throw away. Remember who has you in his arms: remember that
it is I, your own Henri, who am pressing you to my heart." He took her
up from the bed in his left arm, and with his right hand arraigned the
cloak around her person, and carrying her out into the passage, hurried
to the window which he had left open.
This window looked from the opposite end of the house to that at which
Westerman found the open door.
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