"

The Chevalier put on his hat. He had an idle hour.

Breton choked back the sob. "I will remain with you, Monsieur, for the
present. I was wondering where in the world that copy of Rabelais had
gone. I had not seen it since we left the ship Saint Laurent." The
lad patted the book with a fictitious show of affection.

"Possibly in the hurry of bringing it here you dropped it, and some
one, seeing my name in it, has returned it."

"Never to see France again?" murmured Breton, alone. "Ah, if only I
loved her less, or Monsieur Paul not so well!" Even Breton had his
tragedy.

The Chevalier perched himself upon one of the citadel's parapets. The
southwest wind was tumbling the waters of the river and the deep blues
of the forests seemed continually changing in hues. Forces within him
were at war. He was uneasy. That his father had fought D'Herouville
on his account there could be no doubt. What a sorry world it was,
with its cross-purposes, its snarled labyrinths! The last meeting with
his father came back vividly; and yet, despite all the cutting, biting
dialogue of that interview, Monsieur le Marquis had taken up his cause
unasked and had gone about it with all the valor of his race. He was
chagrined, angered. Had the old days been lived rightly and with
reason; had there been no ravelings, no tangles, no misunderstandings,
life would have run smoothly enough. Had this strange old man, whom
fate had made his father, come with repentance, but without mode of
expression, without tact? Three thousand miles; 'twas a long way when
a letter would have been sufficient. But the cruelty of that lie, and
the bitterness of all these weeks! If his thrusts that night had been
cruel, he knew that, were it all to be done over again, he should not
moderate a single word. The lie, the abominable lie! One does not
forgive such a lie, at least not easily. And yet that duel! He would
have given a year of his life to see that fight as Brother Jacques
described it. It was his blood; and whatever pits and chasms yawned
between, the spirit of this blood was common. Perhaps some day he
could forgive.

And Diane, she had mocked him, not knowing; she had laughed in his
face, unconscious of the double edge; she had accused him and he had
been without answer. Heaven on earth! to win her, to call her his, to
feel her breath upon his cheek, the perfume of her hair in his
nostrils! Hedged in, whichever way he turned, w