ed if I see how you
can withstand him. He is a gallant lad. He has fought bravely and he
has pleaded nobly. You may not win the Countess--as a matter of fact
she is pledged to my son--but you deserve her. I've never been able to
understand any kind of women, much less Frenchwomen, saving your
presence, mademoiselle. Base-born you may be, Major Marteau, but I
know a gentleman when I see him, I flatter myself, and, damme, young
man, here's my hand. I can understand your Emperor better since he can
inspire the devotion of men like you."

The two men clasped hands. The Countess looked on. She stepped softly
nearer to them. She laid her hand on Marteau's shoulder.

"Monsieur--Jean," she said, and there was a long pause between the two
words, "I would that I could grant your request, but it is--you
see--you know I cannot. I am betrothed to Captain Yeovil, with my
uncle's consent, of course. I am a very unhappy woman," she ended,
although just what she meant by that last sentence she hardly knew.

"And this Captain Yeovil, he is a soldier?" asked Marteau.

"Under Wellington," answered the father.

"Now may God grant that I may meet him!"

"You'll find him a gallant officer," answered the sturdy old Englishman
proudly.

"When I think of his father I know that to be true," was the polite
rejoinder.

The little Countess sank down on the chair, buried her face in her
hands and burst into tears.

"Well, of all the----" began the Englishman, but the Frenchman checked
him.

"Mademoiselle," he said softly, "were every tear a diamond they could
not make for me so precious a diadem as they do when I think that you
weep for me. I wish you joy with your English captain. I am your
humble servant ever."

And Laure d'Aumenier felt very much comforted by those words. It was
absurd, inconceivable, impossible, of course, and yet no handsomer,
braver, truer, more considerate gentleman had ever crossed her horizon
than this descendant of an ancient line of self-respecting, honorable
yeomen. She contrasted him with Captain Yeovil, and the contrast was
not to Marteau's disadvantage! No, decidedly not!

CHAPTER XIII

THE THUNDERBOLT STROKE

On the tenth of February, 1814, for the first time in many days, the
sun shone brightly. Nevertheless there was little change in the
temperature; the thaw still prevailed. The sun's heat was not great
enough to dry the roads, nor was the weather sufficiently cold to
fre