swer from you alone."

Still for a few seconds she kept silence.

"Why should I not answer him, papa?" she said at length, and softly.
"It is not for us to choose what he should ask." She paused.
"All his life Dominique Guyon has been helping us; see how he has,
even in these few days, worn himself in our service!"

Her father stared at her, puzzled, not following her thought. He had
expected her to be shocked, affronted; he did not know that
Dominique's passion was an old tale to her; and as little did he
perceive that in her present mood she put herself aside and thought
only of Dominique as in trouble and needing help.

But apparently something in her face reassured him, for he stepped
toward the door.

"You prefer to give him his answer alone?"

She bent her head.

For a while after the door had closed upon the Commandant, Dominique
stood with eyes abased. Then, looking up and meeting the divine
compassion in hers, he fell on his knees and stretched out both hands
to her.

"Is there no hope for me, ma'amzelle?"

She shook her head. Looking down on him through tears, she held out
a hand; he took it between his palms and clung to it, sobbing like a
child.

Terrible, convulsive sobs they were at first, but grew quieter by
degrees, and as the outburst spent itself a deep silence fell upon
the room.

A tear had fallen upon his clasped knuckles. He put his lips to it
and, imprisoning her fingers, kissed them once, reverently.

He was a man again. He stood up, yet not releasing her hand, and
looked her in the face.

"Ma'amzelle, you will leave the Fort? You will let Bateese carry you
out of danger? For me, of course, I stay with the Seigneur."

"No, Dominique. All New France is dying around us, and I stay with
my father to see the end. Perhaps at the last I shall need you to
help me." She smiled bravely. "You have been trying to persuade my
father, I know."

"I have been trying to persuade him, and yet--yet--Oh, I will tell to
you a wickedness in my heart that I could not tell even to Father
Launoy! There was a moment when I thought to myself that even to
have you die here and to die beside you were better than to let you
go. Can you forgive me such a thought as that?"

"I forgive."

"And will you grant one thing more?"

"What is it, Dominique?"

"A silly favour, ma'amzelle--but why not? The English will be here
soon, maybe in a few hours. Let me call Bateese, and we three will
b