perhaps because he could
not trust himself to gaze on her. Count Hannibal walked a dozen paces
from her and returned, and again a dozen paces and returned; and again a
third time, with something fierce and passionate in his gait. At last he
stopped before her.

"You have nothing to offer for them," he said, in a cold, hard tone.
"Nothing that is not mine already, nothing that is not my right, nothing
that I cannot take at my will. My word?" he continued, seeing her about
to interrupt him. "True, Madame, you have it, you had it. But why need
I keep my word to you, who tempt me to break my word to the King?"

She made a weak gesture with her hands. Her head had sunk on her
breast--she seemed dazed by the shock of his contempt, dazed by his
reception of her offer.

"You saved the letters?" he continued, interpreting her action. "True,
but the letters are mine, and that which you offer for them is mine also.
You have nothing to offer. For the rest, Madame," he went on, eyeing her
cynically, "you surprise me! You, whose modesty and virtue are so great,
would corrupt your husband, would sell yourself, would dishonour the love
of which you boast so loudly, the love that only God gives!" He laughed
derisively as he quoted her words. "Ay, and, after showing at how low a
price you hold yourself, you still look, I doubt not, to me to respect
you, and to keep my word. Madame!" in a terrible voice, "do not play
with fire! You saved my letters, it is true! And for that, for this
time, you shall go free, if God will help me to let you go! But tempt me
not! Tempt me not!" he repeated, turning from her and turning back again
with a gesture of despair, as if he mistrusted the strength of the
restraint which he put upon himself. "I am no more than other men!
Perhaps I am less. And you--you who prate of love, and know not what
love is--could love! could love!"

He stopped on that word as if the word choked him--stopped, struggling
with his passion. At last, with a half-stifled oath, he flung away from
her, halted and hung a moment, then, with a swing of rage, went off again
violently. His feet as he strode along the river-bank trampled the
flowers, and slew the pale water forget-me-not, which grew among the
grasses.

CHAPTER XXIII. A MIND, AND NOT A MIND.

La Tribe tore through the thicket, imagining Carlat and Count Hannibal
hot on his heels. He dared not pause even to listen. The underwood
tripped h