at is a coward's
threat," I said contemptuously.

I could not daunt her. "I mean it. I mean it, monsieur," she repeated
quietly.

I stood and looked at her. "You have a man's equity," I said. "You
are determined to give me my chance. Well, I will take it,--and
remember that you gave it to me. But, would you have me in any way
weaken my purpose, mademoiselle?"

She looked up with a flash of anger. "Am I a child or an intriguing
woman? No, no. Do your best, or your worst, or I shall despise you
for your weakness. I have told you that I have scant hopes for your
success, monsieur."

What could I say? I stood before her awkwardly. "Mademoiselle, may I
tell you something of myself and my people? You should know what sort
of name you are to bear."

But she pressed her hands outward. "No, no!" she cried. "Why tell
me?" Then she sobered. "I know that you are brave and kind," she
said, with her eyes down. "Beyond that--I do not think that I am
interested, monsieur."

I felt angered. "You should be interested," I said bluntly. "Well,
the night is slipping away. Let me lead you to the fire and bid you
good-night."

Her finger tips met mine as we walked back together, but the touch was
as remote as the brushing of the pine boughs on my cheek. Yet when I
would have handed her her blanket and turned away, she detained me.
"Sit with me a little longer, monsieur," she begged. "I--I think I am
afraid of the woods to-night. Let us sit here a while."

I could not grasp her mood, but there was nothing for me but to yield
to it. I made her as comfortable as possible, and saw that the fire
was kept alight; then I sat near her. I was tired, but time went
swiftly. My mind would not have given my body rest, even had I lain
down.

In time the woman leaned toward me. "There is--there is no woman who
will suffer from this?" she asked slowly.

I stirred the fire. "I have no wife, mademoiselle."

"I did not mean that. There is no woman who--who cares for you?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"And you--and you, monsieur? There is no one whom you are giving up?"

I answered slowly. "Mademoiselle," I said, "you are a strangely wise
woman. You know the value of reticence,--something few women seem to
know. We have talked of many things, of ambition, of justice, of
generosity, but never, never of love. Are you wise to open the past in
that one matter? I have asked you no questions."

She hid her face in h