ve; and unless you judge him at his true value, your
fabric of schemes will fall ere it reaches its culmination. Could even
you trick him with words? No. You were compelled to use force. Is he not
handsome, Madame?" with a feverish gaiety. "Is there a gentleman at your
court who is a more perfect cavalier? Why, he blushes like a woman! Is
there in your court--" But her sentence broke, and she could not go on.

"Elsa, are you mad?"

"Yes, Madame, yes; they call it a species of madness." Then, with a
sudden gust of wrath: "Why did you not leave me in peace? You have
destroyed me! O, the shame of it!" and she fled into her own room.

Madame sat motionless. This, among other things, she had not reckoned
on.

Only the troopers and the servants slept in peace that night.

Maurice was up betimes next morning. The hills and valleys lay under a
mantle of sparkling rime, and the very air, keen of edge and whistling,
glistened in the sunlight. The iron shoes of the horses beat sharply
on the stone flooring of the court yard. Maurice examined his riding
furniture; pulled at the saddle, tugged at the rein buckles, lifted the
leather flaps and tried the stirrup straps. It was not that he doubted
the ability of the groom; it was because this particular care was second
nature to him.

Fitzgerald watched him, and meditated. Some of his thoughts were not
pleasant. His eyes were heavy. At times he would lift his shoulders and
permit half a smile to flicker over his lips; a certain thought caused
this. The Colonel sat astride a broad-chested cavalry horse, spotless
white. He was going to accompany Maurice to the frontier. He had imbibed
the exhilarating tonic of the morning, and his spirits ran high. At
length Maurice leaped into the saddle, caught the stirrups well, and
signaled to the Colonel that he was ready.

"You understand, Maurice?" Fitzgerald asked.

"Yes, John; all the world loves a lover. Besides, it is a glorious
morning for a ride. Up, portcullis, down drawbridge!" waving his hand to
the Colonel.

And away they went through the gateway, into the frosted road. Maurice
felt the spirit of some medieval ancestor creep into his veins and he
longed for an hour of the feudal days, to rescue a princess from some
dungeon-keep and to harry an over-lord. After all, she was a wonderful
woman, and Fitzgerald was only a man. To give up all for the love of
woman is the only sacrifice a man can make.

"En avant!" cried the Colonel