he chance of giving my life for him."

Alone and unwatched, he gave himself over for a few moments to the
almost voluptuous delight of giving free rein to his grief. The hot
Latin blood in him, tempestuous in all its passions, was firing his
heart and brain now with the glow of devotion and of self-sacrifice.

The calm, self-centred Anglo-Saxon temperament--the almost fatalistic
acceptance of failure without reproach yet without despair, which
Percy's letter to him had evidenced in so marked a manner--was, mayhap,
somewhat beyond the comprehension of this young enthusiast, with pure
Gallic blood in his veins, who was ever wont to allow his most
elemental passions to sway his actions. But though he did not altogether
understand, Armand St. Just could fully appreciate. All that was noble
and loyal in him rose triumphant from beneath the devastating ashes of
his own shame.

Soon his mood calmed down, his look grew less wan and haggard. Hearing
Jeanne's discreet and mouselike steps in the next room, he rose quickly
and hid the letter in the pocket of his coat.

She came in and inquired anxiously about Marguerite; a hurriedly
expressed excuse from him, however, satisfied her easily enough. She
wanted to be alone with Armand, happy to see that he held his head more
erect to-day, and that the look as of a hunted creature had entirely
gone from his eyes.

She ascribed this happy change to Marguerite, finding it in her heart to
be grateful to the sister for having accomplished what the fiancee had
failed to do.

For awhile they remained together, sitting side by side, speaking
at times, but mostly silent, seeming to savour the return of truant
happiness. Armand felt like a sick man who has obtained a sudden
surcease from pain. He looked round him with a kind of melancholy
delight on this room which he had entered for the first time less than a
fortnight ago, and which already was so full of memories.

Those first hours spent at the feet of Jeanne Lange, how exquisite they
had been, how fleeting in the perfection of their happiness! Now they
seemed to belong to a far distant past, evanescent like the perfume
of violets, swift in their flight like the winged steps of youth.
Blakeney's letter had effectually taken the bitter sting from out
his remorse, but it had increased his already over-heavy load of
inconsolable sorrow.

Later in the day he turned his footsteps in the direction of the river,
to the house in the Quai d