ering and despairing,
white with rage and hate. But Mademoiselle did not look. She gazed
straight at the Lieutenant.

'Have you done?' she said.

'Done?' he stammered; her words, her air, bringing him to earth again.
'Done? Yes, if you believe me.'

'I do not,' she answered proudly. 'If that be all, be satisfied,
Monsieur. I do not believe you.'

'Then tell me this,' he retorted, after a moment of stunned surprise.
'Answer me this! Why, if he was not on our side, do you think that we
let him remain here? Why did we suffer him to stay in a suspected house,
bullying us, annoying us, thwarting us, taking your part from hour to
hour?'

'He has a sword, Monsieur,' she answered with fine contempt.

'MILLE DIABLES!' he cried, snapping his fingers in a rage. 'That for
his sword! It was because he held the Cardinal's commission, I tell you,
because he had equal authority with us. Because we had no choice.'

'And that being so, Monsieur, why are you now betraying him?' she asked.
He swore at that, feeling the stroke go home.

'You must be mad!' he said, glaring at her. 'Cannot you see that the man
is what I tell you? Look at him! Look at him, I say! Listen to him! Has
he a word to say for himself?'

Still she did not look.

'It is late,' she replied coldly. 'And I am not very well. If you have
done, quite done--perhaps, you will leave me, Monsieur.'

'MON DIEU! he exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders, and grinding his teeth
in impotent rage. You are mad! I have told you the truth, and you will
not believe it. Well--on your head be it then, Mademoiselle. I have no
more to say! You will see.'

And with that, without more, fairly conquered by her staunchness, he
saluted her, gave the word to the sergeant, turned and went down the
path.

The sergeant went after him, the lanthorn swaying in his hand. And we
two were left alone. The frogs were croaking in the pool, a bat flew
round in circles; the house, the garden, all lay quiet under the
darkness, as on the night which I first came to it.

And would to Heaven I had never come that was the cry in my heart. Would
to Heaven I had never seen this woman, whose nobleness and faith were a
continual shame to me; a reproach branding me every hour I stood in her
presence with all vile and hateful names. The man just gone, coarse,
low-bred, brutal soldier as he was, manflogger and drilling-block, had
yet found heart to feel my baseness, and words in which to denounce it.
What,