crawl, and shrugged. "Can it be possible
that I wrote this--'I kiss your handsome grey eyes a thousand times'?"
Calmly she folded the letter. "Well, Monsieur, and you searched
thoroughly, I have no doubt. This would be an incentive to the most
laggard gallant."

"I . . . I was in deep trouble." The words choked him. "I was about
to start . . ." He glanced about helplessly.

"And . . . ?" The scorn on her face deepened. He became conscious
that the candle and the letter were drawing dangerously close.

"Good God, Diane! how can I tell you? You would not understand! . . .
What are you doing?" springing toward her to stay her arm. But he was
too late. The flame was already eating into the heart of that precious
testament.

She moved swiftly, and a table stood between them. He was powerless.
The letter crumbled into black flakes upon the table. She set down the
candle, breathing quickly, her amber eyes blazing with triumph.

"That was not honorable. I trusted you."

"I trusted, too, Monsieur; I trusted overmuch. Besides, desiring to
become a nun, it would have compromised me."

"Did you come three thousand miles to accomplish this?" anger swelling
his tones.

"It was a part of my plans," coolly. "To how many gallants have you
shown this ridiculous letter?"

His brain began to clear; for he saw that his love hung in the balance.
"And had I followed you to the four ends of France, had I sought you
from town to city and from city to town . . . ?"

"You would have grown thin, Monsieur."

"And mad! For you would have been here in Quebec. And I have kissed
that letter a thousand times!"

"Is it possible?"

"Diane . . ."

"I am Diane no longer," she interrupted.

"In God's name, what shall I call you, then?" his despair maddening him.

"You may call me . . . a dream. And I advise you to wake soon."

The man in him came to his rescue. He suddenly reached across the
table and caught her wrist. With his unengaged hand he caught up the
ashes and let them flutter back to the table.

"A lie, a woman's lie! Is that why the ash is black? Have I wronged
you in any way? Has my love been else than honest? Who are you?"
vehemently.

"I am play, Monsieur; pastime, frolic," insolently. "Was not that what
you named me in the single hours?"

"Are you some prince's light-o'-love?" roughly.

The blood of wrath spread over her cheeks.

"Your name?"

"I am not afraid of you, Monsieur; but you a