e?"

"Nothing. Stop." His lips moved, his father bent nearer. "Laure----"
he whispered.

"Yes, yes, what of her?"

"That Frenchman she loved----"

"Marteau?"

The young Englishman closed his eyes in assent.

"He could have killed me but spared--for her--he--is there," he
faltered presently.

"There is life in this Frenchman yet," said one of the surgeons,
looking up at the moment.

"My Lord!" said old Sir Gervaise Yeovil, starting up, choking down a
sob and endeavoring to keep his voice steady. "My boy yonder----"

"Yes," said the Duke, "a brave lad."

"He's---- It is all up with him. You will let me take him back to
England, and--the Frenchman and the Eagle?"

"Certainly. I wish to God it had never happened, Yeovil," went on the
soldier. "But it had to be. Bonaparte had to be put down, the world
freed. And somebody had to pay."

"I thank God," said the old man, "that my boy dies for his King and his
country and for human liberty."

"Nor shall he die in vain," said the soldier.

Frank Yeovil died on the vessel Sir Gervaise chartered to carry him and
Marteau and some other wounded officers of his acquaintance back to
England. They did not bury him at sea. At his earnest request they
took him back to his own land to be laid with his ancestors, none of
whom had spent themselves more gloriously or for a greater cause than
he.

Marteau, frightfully weak, heart-broken and helpless, by Sir Gervaise
Yeovil's command was taken to the Baronet's own house.

"I did my best," he said brokenly from the bed on which he lay as Laure
d'Aumenier bent over him, Sir Gervaise standing grim and silent with
folded arms in the background.

"For France and the Emperor," whispered the woman.

"Yes, that, but for your husband as well. He fell upon me. I was
trying to rally the Guard--the Eagle--he was beaten down--but I
recognized him. I would not have harmed him."

"He told me," said the Baronet, "what you said. 'For your wife's
sake,'" he quoted in his deep voice, looking curiously at the girl.

"Sir Gervaise," said the Countess, looking up at him entreatingly, "I
am alone in this world but for you. I was to have been your daughter.
May I speak?"

"I wish it."

"Marteau--Jean," she said softly, "I was not his wife. Perhaps now
that he is dead it would have been better if I had been, but----"

"And you are free?"

Again the Countess looked at the Englishman. Simple and homely though
he was, he