in the thick of a fight to-morrow. "Bonaparte never
waits," Crystal heard him say quite distinctly, "he is always ready to
attack. Audacity and a bold use of his artillery were always his most
effectual weapons."

And he went on to tell her of his own plans, his future, his hopes: he
spoke of the possibility of death and of this being a last farewell.
Crystal tried to follow him, tried to respond when he spoke of his love
for her--a love, the strength of which--he said--she would never be able
to gauge.

"If it were not for the strength of my love for you, Crystal," he said
almost fiercely, "I could not bear to face possible death to-morrow
. . . not without telling you . . . not without making reparation for my
sin."

And still in that curious trance-like sense of aloofness, Crystal
murmured vaguely:

"Sin, Maurice? What sin do you mean?"

But he did not seem to give her a direct reply: he spoke once more only
of his love. "Love atones for all sins!" he reiterated once or twice
with passionate earnestness. "Even God puts Love above everything on
earth. Love is an excuse for everything. Love justifies everything.
Such love as I have for you, Crystal, makes everything else--even sin,
even cowardice--seem insignificant and meaningless."

She agreed with what he said, for indeed she felt too tired to argue the
point, or even to get his sophistry into her head. Strangely enough she
felt out of tune with him to-night--with him--Maurice--the lover of her
girlhood, the man from whom she had parted with such desperate heartache
three months ago, in the avenue at Brestalou. Then it had seemed as if
the world could never hold any happiness for her again, once Maurice had
gone out of her life. Now he had come back into it. Chance and the
favour of the King had once more made a future happy union with him
possible. She ought to have been supremely happy, yet she was out of
tune. His passionate words of love found only a cold response in her
heart.

For the past three months she had constantly been at war with her own
self for this: she hated and despised herself for that numbness of the
heart which had so unaccountably taken all the zest and the joy out of
her life. Does one love one day and become indifferent the next? What
had become of the girlish love that had invested Maurice de St. Genis
with the attributes of a hero? What had he done that the pedestal on
which her ideality had hoisted him should have proved of such