t
with a wish to be understood, and to set forth a story of which the
letter should be as true as the spirit. Friend beyond all price to me,
some day this tale will reach your hands, and I ask you to house it in
your heart, and, whatever comes, let it be for my remembrance. God be
with you, and farewell!"

VII. "QUOTH LITTLE GARAINE"

I have given the whole story here as though it had been thought out
and written that Sunday afternoon which brought me good news of Juste
Duvarney. But it was not so. I did not choose to break the run of the
tale to tell of other things and of the passing of time. The making
took me many, many weeks, and in all that time I had seen no face but
Gabord's, and heard no voice but his, when he came twice a day to
bring me bread and water. He would answer no questions concerning Juste
Duvarney, or Voban, or Monsieur Doltaire, nor tell me anything of what
was forward in the town. He had had his orders precise enough, he said.
At the end of my hints and turnings and approaches, stretching himself
up, and turning the corn about with his foot (but not crushing it, for
he saw that I prized the poor little comrades), he would say:

"Snug, snug, quiet and warm! The cosiest nest in the world--aho!"

There was no coaxing him, and at last I desisted. I had no light. With
resolution I set my mind to see in spite of the dark, and at the end of
a month I was able to note the outlines of my dungeon; nay, more, I was
able to see my field of corn; and at last what joy I had when, hearing
a little rustle near me, I looked closely and beheld a mouse running
across the floor! I straightway began to scatter crumbs of bread, that
it might, perhaps, come near me--as at last it did.

I have not spoken at all of my wounds, though they gave me many painful
hours, and I had no attendance but my own and Gabord's. The wound in my
side was long healing, for it was more easily disturbed as I turned in
my sleep, while I could ease my arm at all times, and it came on slowly.
My sufferings drew on my flesh, my blood, and my spirits, and to this
was added that disease inaction, the corrosion of solitude, and the
fever of suspense and uncertainty as to Alixe and Juste Duvarney. Every
hour, every moment that I had ever passed in Alixe's presence, with many
little incidents and scenes in which we shared, passed before me--vivid
and cherished pictures of the mind. One of those incidents I will set
down here.

A year o