e,
because I had not stuck my sword all the way through his body, instead
of only about six inches, on our first acquaintance. To this I made
irreverent answers as we rode through the pleasant country. It was
barely noon of the summer day when we came within sight of the Manoir
Cheverny, and at the same time saw the chateau of Capello sitting,
white and beautiful and stately upon its marble terraces and above its
fair gardens and green slopes, like a queen upon her throne. We
skirted the domain and entered the pleasure grounds of the Manoir
Cheverny, and soon were reposing ourselves in the ancient and
comfortable old house.

Two or three old servants had been kept in the place, and it was well
aired and in good order. Scarce had we sat down to an excellent dinner
with good wine, when a letter was brought to Gaston Cheverny. It was
from Mademoiselle Capello, and invited us, both in her own name and
Madame Riano's, to become her guests at supper that evening.

Without one word of apology, Gaston Cheverny dashed away from the
dinner table, wrote a letter of acceptance, and came back looking
exactly as a man does when he has won the first prize in the lottery,
or has just received a field marshal's baton. In an instant of time,
and by a stroke of Francezka's pen, all of his grievances, his
resolves, his fierce resentment, melted away like the mists of the
morning. Nobody could complain that Gaston Cheverny was coldly
reasonable in his love.

Six o'clock was the hour named in Francezka's letter, but Gaston's
impatience was so great that we set out a little after five, and spent
the time loitering in the great park. If I had thought the chateau of
Capello lovely in the autumn days, more than two years before, when
the woods were russet, the earth brown, how much lovelier did it
appear in this rare summer afternoon when it was one vast garden of
beauty! The green, softly rolling hills, the rich park, the purple
woods, the chateau rising from its emerald terraces, its marble
balustrades gleaming white, the fountains plashing diamonds, the lake
blue and still and melancholy, the Italian garden like a poet's
dream--my senses ached with so much beauty--but I forgot it all, when,
in the sunset glow, I saw Francezka Capello.

The bell in the little village church was clanging musically, as
Gaston Cheverny and I mounted the terrace steps. A table was set out
in the rose garden by the side of the canal, for an _al fresco_
supper