lit up his
grinning face.

'Called--at this hour of the night, you fool?' I answered angrily. 'No!
I did not call. Go to bed, man!'

But he remained on the ladder, gaping stupidly. 'I heard you,' he said.

'Go to bed! You are drunk,' I answered, sitting up. 'I tell you I did
not call.'

'Oh, very well,' he answered slowly. 'And you do not want anything?'

'Nothing--except to be left alone,' I replied sourly.

'Umph!' he said. 'Good-night!'

'Good-night! Good-night!' I answered with what patience I might. The
tramp of the horse's hoofs as it was led out of the stable was in my
ears at the moment. 'Good-night!' I continued feverishly, hoping that he
would still retire in time, and I have a chance to look out. 'I want to
sleep.'

'Good,' he said, with a broad grin. 'But it is early yet, and you have
plenty of time.'

And then, at last, he slowly let down the trap-door, and I heard him
chuckle as he went down the ladder.

Before he reached the bottom I was at the window. The woman, whom I had
seen, still stood below in the same place, and beside her was a man in
a peasant's dress, holding a lanthorn. But the man, the man I wanted
to see, was no longer there. He was gone, and it was evident that the
others no longer feared me; for while I gazed the landlord came out to
them with another lanthorn swinging in his hand, and said something to
the lady, and she looked up at my window and laughed.

It was a warm night, and she wore nothing over her white dress. I could
see her tall, shapely figure and shining eyes, and the firm contour of
her beautiful face, which, if any fault might be found with it, erred
in being too regular. She looked like a woman formed by nature to
meet dangers and difficulties, and to play a great part; even here, at
midnight, in the midst of these desperate men, she did not seem out of
place. I could fancy--I did not find it impossible to fancy--that under
her queenly exterior, and behind the contemptuous laugh with which she
heard the landlord's story, there lurked a woman's soul, a soul capable
of folly and tenderness. But no outward sign betrayed its presence--as I
saw her then.

I scanned her very carefully; and secretly, if the truth be told, I was
glad to find that Madame de Cocheforet was such a woman. I was glad that
she had laughed as she had--with a ring of disdain and defiance; glad
that she was not a little, tender, child-like woman, to be crushed
by the first pinch of trouble