ed to speak once or twice, then began
to shriek an imprecation at Fournel; but the constables clapped hands on
his mouth, and dragged him out of the room and out of the house.

Fournel saw him safely out, then returned to Madelinette. "Do not fear
for the fellow. A little gaol will do him good. I will see to it that he
gives no trouble, Madame," he said. "You may trust me."

"I do trust you, Monsieur," Madelinette answered quietly. "I pray that
you may be right, and that--" "It will all come out right," he firmly
insisted. "Will you ask for Madame Marie?" she said. Then with a smile:
"We will go happier than we came."

As she and Madame Marie passed from the house, Fournel shook
Madelinette's hand warmly, and said: "'All's well that ends well.'"

"That ends well," answered Madelinette, with a sorrowful questioning in
her voice.

"We will make it so," he rejoined, and then they parted.

CHAPTER X. THE DOOR THAT WOULD NOT OPEN

The old Manor House of Pontiac was alive with light and merriment. It
was the early autumn; not cool enough for the doors and windows to be
shut, but cool enough to make dancing a pleasure, and to give spirit to
the gaiety that filled the old house. The occasion was a notable one for
Pontiac. An address of congratulation and appreciation and a splendid
gift of silver had been brought to the Manor from the capital by certain
high officials of the Government and the Army, representing the people
of the Province. At first Madelinette had shrunk from the honour to be
done her, and had so written to certain quarters whence the movement had
proceeded; but a letter had come to her which had changed her mind. This
letter was signed George Fournel. Fournel had a right to ask a favour of
her; and one that was to do her honour seemed the least that she might
grant. He had suffered much at Louis' hands; he had forborne much;
and by an act of noble forgiveness and generosity, had left Louis
undisturbed in an honour which was not his, and the enjoyment of an
estate to which he had no claim. He had given much, suffered much, and
had had nothing in return save her measureless and voiceless gratitude.
Friendship she could give him; but it was a silent friendship, an
incompanionable friendship, founded upon a secret and chivalrous act. He
was in Quebec and she in Pontiac; and since that day when he had burned
the will before her eyes she had not seen him. She had heard from him
but twice; once to tell h