t is possible that I might find a way to wring your
heart. But I refuse to concern myself with such ridiculous
impossibilities."

It was the tone, not the words, that cut; but the marquis gave no sign.
He was tired physically and felt himself mentally incompetent to play
at repartee. Besides, he had already lost too much through his love of
this double-edged sword.

"Suppose it was belated paternal love, as well as the sense of justice,
that brings me into this desert?" The Chevalier never knew what it
cost the proud old man to utter these words.

"Monsieur," laughing rudely, "you are, and always will be, the keenest
wit in France!"

"I am an old man," softly. "It is something to acknowledge that I did
you a wrong."

"You have brought the certificate of my birth?" bluntly.

"I searched for it, but unfortunately I could not find it;" and a
shadow of worry crossed the marquis's face. For the first time in his
life he became conscious of incompleteness, of having missed something
in the flight. "I have told you the truth. I can say no more. I had
some hope that we might stand again upon the old footing."

"I shall not even visit your grave."

"I might turn over, it is true," a flare in the grey eyes. "And, after
all, I have a heart."

"Good heaven! Monsieur, your mind wanders!" the Chevalier exclaimed.

The marquis swept the salt from the table. The movement was not
impatient; rather resigned. "There is nothing more to be said. You
may go. Our paths shall not cross again."

The Chevalier bowed, turned, and walked toward the door through which
he had entered. He stopped at the threshold and looked back. The grey
eyes met grey eyes; but the son's burned with hate. The marquis,
listening, heard the soft pat of moccasined feet. He was alone. He
scowled, but not with anger. The chill of stone lay upon his flesh.

"It is my blood," he mused; "my blood and hers: mine the pride of the
brain, hers the pride of the heart. I have lost something; what is
it?" He slid forward in his chair, his head sunk between his shoulders.
Thus the governor, returning, found him.

As for the Chevalier, on leaving his father he had a vague recollection
of passing into one of the council chambers, attracted possibly by the
lights. Tumult was in his heart, chaos in his brain; rage and
exultation, unbelief and credulity. He floated, drifted, dreamed. His
father! It was so fantastic. That cynical, cruel old man h