desolate: jealousy itself gave way before that more gentle feeling.
After all, Crystal could only be true to the love of her childhood; her
heart belonged to the companion, the lover, the ideal of her girlish
dreams. This stranger here loved her--that was obvious--but Crystal had
never looked on him with anything but indifference. Even that dance last
night . . . but of this Maurice would not think lest pity die out of his
heart again . . . and jealousy and hate walk hand in hand with base
ingratitude.

He turned his horse's head round to the road, pressed his knees into its
sides, and then as the poor, weary beast started to amble leisurely down
the road, Maurice looked back for the last time on the prostrate,
pathetic figure of the lonely man who had given his all for him: he
looked at every landmark which would enable him to find that man
again--the angle of the forest where it touched the meadow,--the
milestone, the trees by the roadside--oh! he meant to do his duty, to do
it well and quickly, to send the conveyance, to neglect nothing; then,
with a sigh--half of bitterness, yet full of satisfaction--he finally
turned away and looked straight out before him into the distance where
Brussels lay, and where the happiness of Crystal's love called to him,
and he would find rest and peace in the warm affection of her faithful
heart.

CHAPTER XI

THE LOSING HANDS

I

An hour later Maurice de St. Genis was in Brussels. Though his head
still ached his mind was clear, and thoughts of Crystal--of happiness
with her now at last within sight--had chased every other thought away.

His home had been with the de Cambrays ever since those old, sad days in
England; he had a home to go to now:--a home where the kindly friendship
of the Comte as well as the love of Crystal was ready to welcome him.
The warmth of anticipated happiness and well-being warmed his heart and
gave strength to his body. The horrors of the past few hours seemed all
to have melted away behind him on the Brussels road as did the
remembrance of a man--wounded himself and spent--risking his life for
the sake of a friend. Not that St. Genis meant to be ungrateful--nor did
he forget that wounded man--lying alone and sick on the fringe of the
wood by the roadside.

As soon as he had taken his horse round to the barracks in the rue des
Comediens, and before even he had a wash or had his uniform cleaned of
stains and mud, he rushed to the headquarters