g, so intense was the pain
which overswept it. Yet I held to the soft hands, for there was such a
pitiful look of suffering upon her upturned face as to steady me.

"No, I knew it not," I answered brokenly. "I--I have been buried in
the forest all these years since we parted, where few rumors of the
town have reached me. But let that pass; it--it is easy to see you are
now in great sorrow. Was it because of this--in search of help, in
need, perchance--that you have sent for me?"

She bowed her head; a tear fell upon my broad hand and glistened there.

"Yes, Geoffrey."

The words were scarcely more than a whisper; then the low voice seemed
to strengthen with return of confidence, her dark eyes anxiously
searching my face.

"I sent for you, Geoffrey, because of deep trouble; because I am left
alone, without friends, saving only the _pere_. I know well your
faithfulness. In spite of the wrong, the misunderstanding between
us--and for it I take all the blame--I have ever trusted in your word,
your honor; and now, when I can turn nowhere else for earthly aid, the
good God has guided you back to New Orleans. Geoffrey Benteen, do not
gaze at me so! It breaks my heart to see that look in your eyes; but,
my friend, my dearest friend, do you still recall what you said to me
so bravely the night you went away?"

Did I remember! God knew I did; ay! each word of that interview had
been burned into my life, had been repeated again and again in the
silence of my heart amid the loneliness of the woods; nothing in all
those years had for one moment obliterated her face or speech from
memory.

"I remember, Eloise," I answered more calmly. "The words you mean
were: 'If ever you have need of one on whom you may rely for any
service, however desperate (and in New Orleans such necessity might
arise at any moment), one who would gladly yield his very life to serve
you, then, wherever he may be, send for Geoffrey Benteen.' My poor
girl, has that moment come?"

The brown head drooped until it rested in unconsciousness against my
arm, while I could feel the sobs which shook her form and choked her
utterance.

"It has come," she whispered at last; "I am trusting in your promise."

"Nor in vain; my life is at your command."

She stopped my passionate utterance with quick, impulsive gesture.

"No! pledge not yourself again until you hear my words, and ponder
them," she cried, with return to that imperiousness of manner I h