truck a cracking board in the entry, and drew her glance toward me.
She sprang up as I entered, with a swift cry of surprise, and, as I
fancied, some whit of gladness in the tone.

"You, Monsieur? You here? I thought you away from Sceaux."

"Yes, Madame, true; but I returned to speak with you before I leave
France forever. I came here to--to--" I could not tell her why; my
heart, so full, clogged my utterance. But women ever understand.

As I cast about me for a word, we had drawn closer, and taking the hand
which half-hid in the folds of her dress, gleamed more white and pure,
I would have raised it to my lips. Even at such a time I noted the
device upon a ring she wore, a device grown so familiar: A wolf's head,
sable.

"An old thing of my mother's," she explained, "Charles has one, and I."

I eagerly seized upon a subject which might so naturally prolong our
interview.

"Aye, I know the device well; are you of the d'Artins?"

"Yes, my mother was; there are now none of the race. The last is a
wanderer; I know not if he lives."

"I know, perchance, of such a man, Madame; would you tell me more of
him, of yourself?"

"I never saw him, my mother's father. Her marriage displeased him
greatly. When her first child was born, a girl, she sent it to him for
his blessing. He denied it, saying he wanted no more of women. The
child died in infancy. Of my sister's birth and mine he was never
told. Then he went away, where, none know."

It thrilled me with a new hope. Who could guess but my relations with
Colonel d'Ortez might throw me again in her way. I took her hand
again, making pretence to examine the ring more curiously. She made
slight demur, and I pressed my first fervent kiss upon the hand of
woman. Man's fortitude could stand no more. Tossing honor,
discretion, duty to the winds, I folded her close, closer yet, and
kissed her brow, her hair, her eyes--her lips, she struggling like a
frightened nestling all the while. It was done.

Ashamed but impenitent--it was too new, too sweet to wish undone--I
loosed her gently, and kissed her hand but once again, then left her
standing where the light from the mullioned window in halos wreathed my
saint. It was thus I ever afterward remembered her.

She made no other sign; I withdrew swiftly as I came. From across the
wall, unobserved, I watched her leave the place, downcast of eye and
slow of step. In rebellious and uncertain mood I rode away.