hings?" she muttered, her dry lips framing the
words with difficulty.

"Because it behoves you to know them," he answered, thoughtfully tapping
the table. "I have no one, save my brother, whom I can trust."

She would not ask him why he trusted her, nor why he thought he could
trust her. For a moment or two she watched him, while he, with his eyes
lowered, stood in deep thought. At last he looked up and his eyes met
hers.

"Come!" he said abruptly, and in a different tone, "we must end this! Is
it to be a kiss or a blow between us?"

She rose, though her knees shook under her; and they stood face to face,
her face white as paper.

"What--do you mean?" she whispered.

"Is it to be a kiss or a blow?" he repeated. "A husband must be a lover,
Madame, or a master, or both! I am content to be the one or the other,
or both, as it shall please you. But the one I will be."

"Then, a thousand times, a blow," she cried, her eyes flaming, "from
you!"

He wondered at her courage, but he hid his wonder. "So be it!" he
answered. And before she knew what he would be at, he struck her sharply
across the cheek with the glove which he held in his hand. She recoiled
with a low cry, and her cheek blazed scarlet where he had struck it.

"So be it!" he continued sombrely. "The choice shall be yours, but you
will come to me daily for the one or the other. If I cannot be lover,
Madame, I will be master. And by this sign I will have you know it,
daily, and daily remember it."

She stared at him, her bosom rising and falling, in an astonishment too
deep for words. But he did not heed her. He did not look at her again.
He had already turned to the door, and while she looked he passed through
it, he closed it behind him. And she was alone.

CHAPTER XIX. IN THE ORLEANNAIS.

"But you fear him?"

"Fear him?" Madame St. Lo answered; and, to the surprise of the Countess,
she made a little face of contempt. "No; why should I fear him? I fear
him no more than the puppy leaping at old Sancho's bridle fears his tall
playfellow! Or than the cloud you see above us fears the wind before
which it flies!" She pointed to a white patch, the size of a man's hand,
which hung above the hill on their left hand and formed the only speck in
the blue summer sky. "Fear him? Not I!" And, laughing gaily, she put
her horse at a narrow rivulet which crossed the grassy track on which
they rode.

"But he is hard?" the Countess m