ly together, seeing that she had brought these three men
together--here on this spot--three men who loved the same woman, each
with the utmost ardour and passion at his command--each even at this
very moment striving to win her and to work for her happiness.

Behind them in the plains of Waterloo the cannon still was roaring: de
Marmont was on his way to redeem the fallen fortunes of the hero whom he
worshipped and to win imperial regard, imperial favours, fortune and
glory wherewith to conquer a girl's obstinacy. St. Genis--pale and
unconscious--seemed even in his unconsciousness to defy the power of any
rival by the might of early love, of old associations, of similarity of
caste and of political ideals. He had fought for the cause which she and
he had both equally at heart and by his very helplessness now he seemed
to prove that he could do no more than he had done and that he had the
right to claim the solace and comfort which her girlish lips and her
girlish love had promised him long ago.

Whilst Bobby had nothing to promise and nothing to give save
devotion--his hope, his desire and his love were bounded by her
happiness. And since her happiness lay in the life of the man whom he
had dragged out of the jaws of Death, what greater proof could he give
of his love than to lay down his life for him and for her?

De Marmont's keen eyes took in the situation at a glance: he threw a
quick look of savage hatred on St. Genis and cast one of contemptuous
pity on Clyffurde. Then with a shrug of the shoulders and a light,
triumphant laugh, he set spurs to his horse and rode swiftly away.

Bobby's lack-lustre eyes followed horse and rider down the road till
they grew smaller and smaller still and finally disappeared in the
distance. For a moment he felt puzzled. What was de Marmont doing in
this stream of senseless, panic-stricken men? What was he doing in the
uniform of one of the Allied nations? Why had he laughed so gaily and
appeared so triumphant in his mien?

Did he not know then that his hero had fallen along with his mighty
eagle? that the brief adventure begun in the gulf of Jouan had ended in
a hopeless tragedy on the field of Waterloo? But why that uniform? Poor
Bobby's head ached too much to allow him to think, and time was getting
on.

The road now was deserted. The last of the fugitives formed but a cloud
of black specks on the line of the horizon far off toward Brussels. From
the hayfield there came the m