with a hollow voice; "yes, your
friend."

He could not continue, his mouth worked as if in a convulsion,
suppressed weeping shook his frame; he then threw himself on his knees,
and they saw a shower of tears force themselves through the hands
clasped over his face.

"Take her away, Monsieur," said the old doctor.

Camors gently pushed her out of the but and followed her. She took his
arm and descended the rugged path which led to her home.

It was a walk of twenty minutes from the wood. Half the distance was
passed without interchanging a word. Once or twice, when the rays of the
moon pierced through the clouds, Camors thought he saw her wipe away
a tear with the end of her glove. He guided her cautiously in the
darkness, although the light step of the young woman was little slower
in the obscurity. Her springy step pressed noiselessly the fallen
leaves--avoided without assistance the ruts and marshes, as if she had
been endowed with a magical clairvoyance. When they reached a crossroad,
and Camors seemed uncertain, she indicated the way by a slight pressure
of the arm. Both were no doubt embarrassed by the long silence--it was
Madame de Tecle who first broke it.

"You have been very good this evening, Monsieur," she said in a low and
slightly agitated voice.

"I love you so much!" said the young man.

He pronounced these simple words in such a deep impassioned tone that
Madame de Tecle trembled and stood still in the road.

"Monsieur de Camors!"

"What, Madame?" he demanded, in a strange tone.

"Heavens!--in fact-nothing!" said she, "for this is a declaration of
friendship, I suppose--and your friendship gives me much pleasure."

He let go her arm at once, and in a hoarse and angry voice said--"I am
not your friend!"

"What are you then, Monsieur?"

Her voice was calm, but she recoiled a few steps, and leaned against
one of the trees which bordered the road. The explosion so long pent up
burst forth, and a flood of words poured from the young man's lips with
inexpressible impetuosity.

"What I am I know not! I no longer know whether I am myself--if I am
dead or alive--if I am good or bad--whether I am dreaming or waking.
Oh, Madame, what I wish is that the day may never rise again--that this
night would never finish--that I should wish to feel always--always--in
my head, my heart, my entire being--that which I now feel, near you--of
you--for you! I should wish to be stricken with some sudden illness,