s watching him--her paladin on guard beneath the argent splendour
of the moon. Under the loosened silken vest her heart was racing; under
the unbound hair her cheeks were burning. The soft lake breeze rippled
the woodbine leaves along the sill, stirring the lace and ribbon on her
breast.

Hour after hour she lay there, watching him through the dreamy lustre of
the moon, all the mystery of her love for him tremulous within her.
Once, on the edge of sleep, yet still awake, she stretched her arms
toward him in the darkness, unconsciously as she did in dreams.

Slowly the unreality of it all was enveloping her, possessed her as her
lids grew heavy. In the dim silvery light she could scarcely see him
now: a frail mist belted horse and rider, stretching fairy barriers
across the lawn. Suddenly, within her, clear, distinct, a voice began
calling to him imperiously; but her lips never moved. Yet she knew he
would hear; surely he heard! Surely, surely!--for was he not already
drifting toward her through the moonlight, nearer, here under the palms
and orange-trees--here at her feet, holding her close, safe, strong,
till, faint with the happiness of dreams come true, she slept, circled
by his splendid arms.

And, while she lay there, lips scarce parted, sleeping quietly as a
tired child, he sat his mud-splashed saddle, motionless under the moon,
eyes never leaving her window for an instant, till at last the far dawn
broke and the ghostly shadows fled away.

Then, in the pallid light, he slowly gathered bridle and rode back into
the Southern forest, head heavy on his breast.

CHAPTER XXVII

MALCOURT LISTENS

Malcourt was up and ready before seven when his sister came to his door,
dressed in her pretty blue travelling gown, hatted, veiled, gloved to
perfection; but there was a bloom on cheek and mouth which mocked at the
wearied eyes--a lassitude in every step as she slowly entered and seated
herself.

For a moment neither spoke; her brother was looking at her narrowly; and
after a while she raised her veil, turning her face to the merciless
morning light.

"Paint," she said; "and I'm little older than you."

"You will be younger than I am, soon."

She paled a trifle under the red.

"Are you losing your reason, Louis?"

"No, but I've contrived to lose everything else. It was a losing game
from the beginning--for both of us."

"Are you going to be coward enough to drop your cards and quit the
game?"

"Cal