w can
I thank you for your brave vote in my favor?"

"By giving me your confidence in this matter," said I, gravely. "If we
are to win, we must work together and work hard, madame. We are
entering a struggle, not only to prove the genuineness of a bird skin
and the existence of a bird which neither of us has ever seen, but
also a struggle which will either make us famous forever or render it
impossible for either of us ever again to face a scientific audience."

"I know it," she said, quietly "And I understand all the better how
gallant a gentleman I have had the fortune to enlist in my cause.
Believe me, had I not absolute confidence in my ability to prove the
existence of the ux I should not, selfish as I am, have accepted your
chivalrous offer to stand or fall with me."

The subtle emotion in her voice touched a responsive chord in me. I
looked at her earnestly; she raised her beautiful eyes to mine.

"Will you help me?" she asked.

Would I help her? Faith, I'd pass the balance of my life turning
flip-flaps to please her. I did not attempt to undeceive myself; I
realized that the lightning had struck me--that I was desperately in
love with the young Countess from the tip of her bonnet to the toe of
her small, polished shoe. I was curiously cool about it, too, although
my heart gave a thump that nigh choked me, and I felt myself going red
from temple to chin.

If the Countess d'Alzette noticed it she gave no sign, unless the pink
tint under her eyes, deepening, was a subtle signal of understanding
to the signal in my eyes.

"Suppose," she said, "that I failed, before the congress, to prove my
theory? Suppose my investigations resulted in the exposure of a fraud
and my name was held up to ridicule before all Europe? What would
become of you, monsieur?"

I was silent.

"You are already celebrated as the discoverer of the mammoth and the
great auk," she persisted. "You are young, enthusiastic, renowned, and
you have a future before you that anybody in the world might envy."

I said nothing.

"And yet," she said, softly, "you risk all because you will not leave
a young woman friendless among her confreres. It is not wise,
monsieur; it is gallant and generous and impulsive, but it is not
wisdom. Don Quixote rides no more in Europe, my friend."

"He stays at home--seventy million of him--in America," said I.

After a moment she said, "I believe you, monsieur."

"It is true enough," I said, with a laugh. "W