BEDIIEILDIDI
She moved her shoulders with a ges-
ture of impatience. :
“Why am I doomed to be ever in.
your bad graces, Mistress Tillotson?
Oh, ‘tis true. I would it were not!
Twas so in Williamsburg. Had you a
smile for me? 'I'was when I went.
Well, I return to the frown.”
“I have naught else for you. I have
told you so.”
“And yet,” he said constrainedly,
“for another kind of look from you I
would forget all else. T would change
all, risk all. Can I never win aught
from such a love as mine? Will you
never tell me how to change myself for
you? Shall I go always wanting?” A
fierce and uahappy passion was writ-
ten in his face.
She turned from him coldly. “I beg
you will not recur to that, captain,”
she said. “My answer was my an-
swer. I can never give you more.”
He touched his breast, drawing his
hand across the gold slashings of his
coat. “Is it this? Do you frown upon
his majesty’s uniform? I swear I
would I were a Whig!”
“A Tory before a turncoat,” she an-
swered him.
Jarrat shut his teeth like a trap.
Then without reply he bowed to her
and strode toward the ship. Betsy,
turning her horse, saw only his van-
ishing figure, Anne's face a flush red
gust of anger and her eyes gleaming
like blue ice.
“Why,” exclaimed she in surprise,
‘“rewas Captain Jarrat!”
“I wish,” said Anne, with temper,
giving Betsy’s horse a slap that made
him dance and called forth a curdling
scream from its rider—*I wish Captain
Jarrat was in Guinea!”
As Jarrat stepped on to the deck the
gangway was thrown down for the
herded human cattle that had thronged
the lower deck. Sixty odd, they came
irooping out to where the factors were
gathered, and the ship's agent at once
began the bidding by offering a convict
smith bound for seven years and al-
lowed only diet and lodging, who, he
declared, made great diversion by sing-
ing and whistling, besides being rare
at iron work.
The sale proceeded rapidly, for bond
servants were in demand and the lot
was above an average one. They stood
for inspection eagerly or stolidly, as
their faces promised, some sullen eyed,
some smirking. The women were of-
fered last. But few remained when
the agent beckoned to the swarthy
skinned woman whose babe had died
during the voyage, and she came for-
ward timidly, turning her sloe-black
Italian eyes upon the crowd in misun-
derstanding and cowering dread. Her
hair and the red olive of her skin made
a curious contrast to the light complex-
ions of the other women.
Burnaby Rolph, who had purchased
two laborers, looked her over with sat-
isfaction.
“A likely wench,” he gulped. “Twen-
ty pounds is enough, I doubt not, since
she is foreign. I take her. Put that
down to my reckoning, Master Clark-
son.”
“Poor thing!” said Anne. “I would I
were a man. That brute should never
have her!” She looked up and felt the
young Frenchman’s eyes full upon her.
He had clearly overheard.
“You belong to him now,” said the
agent to the woman, pointing to Rolph.
“D’ye understand?”
She gazed into Rolph’s face and
shrinkingly about the circle. Then,
with a sudden cry, doubling like an
animal, she dodged between the knots
of spectators and threw herself at Ar-
mand’s feet.
Rolph’s curse was lost in a great
laugh which rose from the factors. and
Anne's face stung red at a coarse re-
mark from one of them.
M. Armand did not seem nonplused.
He stooped and lifted the cringing wo-
man to her feet as Rolph approached,
his lean eyes winking.
“My wench seems to have an uncom-
mon fancy,” the latter sneered. “Gall
me, why did you not buy her?”
“Will you sell her to me?”
The latter looked at the secretary’s
dress and glowered at the merriment
of the onlookers. :
“No,” he blurted.
Armand smiled with suavity. “Per-
haps it would pleasure you to game
with me for her? In my country, gen-
tlemen,” he remauked to those around,
‘““‘we are overfond of the dice table. As
for me, I could never resist to woo the
hazard of fortune. Mayhap, however, !
here you are less adventurous, more
cautious, monsieur, or, as those who,
having little, hesitate to risk.”
Rolph grunted at this airy thrust and
gnawed his lip. His estate of Benteliff
was the largest on all the James, and
this, it was said, he had won in the
palace in Williamsburg fifteen years
before in a wild night of play with
Governor Fauquier's gambling crew.
“I will lay against her,” added Ar-
mand, “double the amount she cost
you. And a toss of a coin shall de-
cide.”
‘The factors gasped and stood looking
the speaker over. Rolph stared an in-
stant, then: “Done! Leave the inden-
ture open, Master Clarkson, and bring
it here.” i
A wager in Virginia never failed to
provoke interest, whether it was for
® FEIELILIIIEIPEIIDE o
IRIE be
HALLIE
: ear S By... ERMINIE
: 3 ; RIVES
: Courageou
® ~ Copyright, 1902, by THE BOWEN-MERRILL COMPANY
4 - 4 Bg B ibe
SS Eng See BRR Zefets Sue A
a pair of spurs or a pipe of canary, and
now all were listening eagerly. The
two girls, from their positions, could
see without difficulty over the inter-
vening heads.
“Let us go farther away,” said Anne,
but Betsy was of a different mind.
“No, no,” she protested. ‘“They are go-
ing to toss. I wouldn't miss it now for
anything. He is French, Anne. I can
tell it by the accent.” :
Rolph called and threw the gold coin
he had drawn from his pocket with a
flourish. “The King’s head!” rose a
score of voices as it fell. “Mr. Rolph
wins.”
“Qh, dear!” exclaimed Betsy in great
vexation.
“I really believe,” said Anne, with
heat, “that you want that man to
win.”
“Weren't you just now wishing you
were a man so Mr. Rolph shouldnt?”
retorted Betsy.
M. Armand had drawn forth a wallet
from his pocket and lifted out the sum.
“Fortune beams upon you, monsieur,”
he smiled. ‘I was ever unlucky of a
Wednesday. Shall we have one more
throw? And double or quits mayhap,
monsieur? Unless you deem the stake
overhigh”—
“High!” said Rolph, with a growl
“Double or quits it is. Wighty pounds
against your lost forty and the wench.
But, mind you, this one throw ends it.
D’you hear?”
The other tossed. There was a shout
as the coin descended, for it lodged in
the brim of a spectator’s hat and could
not be counted. At the next trial it
rolled in a spiral and finally stood edge-
wise in a crack of the wharf flooring.
A third time the young Frenchman
sent it spinning. It twinkled in the
sunlight, fell, bounded sideways. the
crowd parting before it. rolled across the
open space and toppled over a few feet
from Anne. Instinctively she leaned
far out of the coach and looked.
“It shows the arms!” she cried in
spite of herself. The coin had fallen on
its obverse side.
“Fortune has turned,” the secretary
observed easily. ‘It appears, monsieur,
that the servant is mine. The remain-
der of the stake, if you please.”
“Twas but his assurance he wager-
ed with,” snarled Rolph. “It will not
hold. What does this sorry raiment
with thus much money, gentlemen? He
does not own so much. I dispute the
bet!”
tleman!” Anne said disgustedly.
M. Armand looked at his antagonist |
with undisguised contempt, and mur-
murs of the assembly, who loved fair
play, were so unmistakable that Rolph
drew out bills and indenture with a
curse and drove off with a black look.
Anne watched him go, a curl on her
lip. When she turned at Betsy’s ex-
clamation it was first to be aware that
all on the wharf were looking her way,
that some of them were smiling and
then that the young Frenchman, with
the redemptioner woman following
him, was approaching her.
Before she had recovered from her
astonishment he was bowing low.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “will pardon
the liberty I take in addressing her?”
She bowed coldly, half startled.
“Irate,” he went on, “has made me
the owner of this servant, for whom,
being no landholder, I have scant use.
She speaks a strange tongue and is in
a strange land, and to free her without
bond time were small kindness. May
I beg the favor, mademoiselle, that you
take her in your service, demanding
such labor as will requite her support?”
The indignant color flooded Anne's
brow. “Sir,” she said frigidly, drawing
herself up, “we have strange surprises
in Virginia, but surely the effrontery
of our visitors surpasses them all.”
Armand looked clearly at her out of
his dark eyes. “Mademoiselle will par-
don,” he answered, ‘‘the error of one
of these visitors, who, seeing her face,
has overestimated her graciousness and
charity.” 3
With this he bowed again till his hat
swept the ground, and, followed by the
bondwoman, walked down the wharf
toward the unlading vessel.
The red in Anne's cheeks had grown
to firebrands and her anger lent sting |
to the half concealed smirks of those
who stood nearest.
“Land of mercy!” said Betsy, with
emphasis. “What impudence!”
Soon the curious crowd was thin-
ning, Betsy's search was ended, and
Anne, having left her seat in the coach,
[ watched at near2r view the disgorging
of the cargo.
Here Brooke came primed with a
new sensation. This now nothing less
than the tale of a fight which had oc-
curred during the voyage between the
mate of the vessel and a passenger.
Anne’s eyes were very soft as he fin-
ished. : £
“And who d’ye think,” he ended,
“was this champion? Why, the young
Frenchman yonder that you crushed
so mercilessly, Mistress Tillotson.”
“And the redemptioner woman?” ask-
ed Anne, with something like dread.
“was the wench he won from
Burnaby Rolph.”
“Qh!” The cadence was full of liquid
self reproach.
“Where are you going?’ Betsy asked
a8 Anne rose. She did not answer, but
“And Mr. Rolph calls himself a gen-
walked quickly across the wharf to the
spot where Armand stood. He made
no movement as she came.
“Monsieur”’— She faltered and stop-
ped.
His hat was in his hand instantly,
and he was gravely deferential.
“1 wish to take hack,” she went on,
“my words of awhile ago. I assure you
they were not rudely meant. I"—
He stayed her with a gesture. “What
am I that mademoiselle should speak
thus? I was brusque, unmannerly”’—
“No, no!”
“I forgot where I was—forgot that I
had not the joy of knowing her—forgot
everything but what I saw in her face
as she sat in the chariot. For I am a
great magician, mademoiselle. I know
all who are lovely and gracious of
heart.”
“I was wrong,” she said proudly.
“And for this I ask your pardon. May
—may I have the bond servant?’
He smiled gayly now and bowed low
to her. “To be treated with such pleas-
ant surgery all the world would be glad
of wounds,” he cried. “You recom-
pense me a thousand times!”
He signed to the serving woman who
sat stolidly upon a nearby chest and
pointed from himself to Anne. She
understood, and when Anne put her in
charge of John the Baptist to take on
ahead a-pillion she went without ques-
tion.
Betsy watched this transaction open
mouthed. .
“Did you ever!” she gasped. “I won-
der what mother will say‘to that!”
Armand had stepped to position, hat
under arm, at the coach door. ‘Made-
moiselle will permit me to assist her?”
he asked and gave her the tips of his
fingers. His eyes were bright on her
face.
On the step she stopped, half turned,
a delicate flush coming to her cheek—a
flush that deepened to damask at his
look. She hesitated an instant as if
about to speak, then suddenly entered,
sat down, gave the word to the driver
and was whirled away. The secretary
stood looking after the retreating char-
iot.
“A splendid creature,” purred Brooke,
at his elbow, “albeit you found her win-
»”
“Wintry!” exclaimed the young man.
“She who is made only of summer, its
incense, its colors, its dreams! Yours
is an enchanted land, monsieur, and
she its goddess!”
“Egad. I'll make a sonnet of that!”
exclaimed Brooke. ‘Sink me, but it’s
coming back!” The latter remark was
applied to the chariot, which had turn-
ed and was now approaching more
slowly the spot where they stood.
As it drew up Anne leaned from the
window. “Monsieur,” she called, “I
had quite forgot to speak of the in-
denture.”
He drew it from his pocket and held
it out to her.
“Such have to be conveyed, I make
sure,” she said, looking at it doubtful-
ly. “Your delicacy, sir, forbade you
to set me right. We shall have to
sign and witness a deed and what not,
I suppose.”
“is a plain indenture,” said Brooke,
peering.
She drew it away sharply. “Alas,
we women know so little of business.
I bethink me my father will wish to re-
ceipt to you for it.”
“Mademoiselle” —
“Aye, but he will. At any rate, you
would not be so ungallant as to have
me blamed, sir? Will you not ride to
Gladden Hall with me? ‘Tis scarce a
half league away.”
“Mademoiselle!”
“Your father is in Williamsburg, mis-
tress,” ventured the exquisite. “I
chanced to overhear him say this morn-
ing he woeald remain over at Colonel
Byrd's until tomorrow.”
Anne frowned. “I fear you did not
hear aright, sir,” she returned coldly.
‘Mademoiselle will permit me lo assist
her?”
Then, with an enchanting smile, she
opened the coach door and made room
for the secretary beside her. “I await
you, monsieur,” she said, her eyes like
fringed gentians. He bowed to her
with a new light on his face, entered
and closed the door.
“Home, Rashleigh!” she cried to the
driver, and the heavy coach rolled
away.
“Wintry,” said the fop to himself,
with a chuckle. “Methinks report does
the lady wrong.”
Jarrat meanwhile had been sitting
in the skipper’s dingy cabin, for Mas-
ter Elves had now transferred responsi-
bility to the ship’s agent, his face prop-
erly smoothed to good fellowship over
a noggin of rum from the locker. He
bad long ago cultivated a new affabili-
ty with the master of the Two Sisters.
Now he had an errand, though he was
somewhat long in coming to the point.
“The Marquis de la Trouerie.” he
said finally and in a purely casual way
as he smacked his lips. “It was nigh
two months since that he died, if I re-
member.”
The mariner took down his log from
‘the shelf and, turning it with a hairy
thumb, pushed it across the board. The
other looked at it closely and laid the
book open before him. Incidentally he
filled up the glasses. ‘Knew you aught
of his affairs in this colony?” Le que-
ried.
One might have noticed that the eyes
opposite narrowed perceptibly.
“Not 1,” answered the skipper.
hold to my own heim.”
“A close tongue,” vouchsafed Jarrat.
“makes a wide purse.”
The drift of this succinct remark was |
not lost upon his companion, who dis-
creetly kept his eyes upon his glass.
The speaker continued, dropping his
voice and leaning ¢n the table: ‘““The |
marquis and I had somewhat of busi-
ness together, although we never met.
In fact, I made this voyage at his own
request. Now, to be frank, the news of
his death will not aid a mutual ven-
ture of ours here in Virginia, which,
for my part, has gone too far for back-
ing. Zooks! A mortal pity to publish
it!” ;
There were interest and speculation in
the narrow eyes if nothing more. Some-
thing jingled. It may have been the
visitor's sword knot or a hand in a
pocket. The skipper was not deaf.
“The passengers?’ he hazarded.
“They are off for the north today.
Boston blab will not hurt me. ’'Tis the
gazettes here I care about. As for the
factors, they are bent on business. Our
young Virginia woolsack has gone to
Pennsylvania. I'll risk him.”
“There’s the marquis’ secretary.”
Jarrat snapped his fingers. ‘“He’ll be
cheap. I know the breed. A leaf lost
from a log is no great matter.” he con-
tinued slowly as though to himself.
Again the jingle. The skipper cleared
his throat.
Jarrat’s hand slowly.
tore out the leaf. folded it and placed it
in his pocketbook. Yellow disks passed
across the table.
“I'll be keel hauled if I see your
game,” said the skipper.
The other smiled. “I'll be keel hauled
if I see why you should,” said he.
Brooke was scarce done twisting his
lovelock when Jarrat crossed the
wharf from the ship hot from his bar-
gain with the skipper. He made in-
quiries concerning a young gentleman |
dressed in gray and by good luck hit
upon an apprentice lad who told him
he had carried the young gentleman’s
¢hest to the Swan tavern, at which he
had been directed to bespeak supper
and lodging.
I when they had left the clus-
tered shipping of the town be-
hind them, wound along the reed rim-
med bank of the river where plethoric
crows cawed to their mates. The after-
noon had come with a vivid sky burn-
ing to a char on the horizon. The
young secretary gazed out of the open
window, and through it the wind came,
sweet with the clean smell of dry grass.
Anne stole a side glance from under
drooping lids.
CHAPTER IV.
OR some time the two in the
coach rode in silence. The way,
“You are deeply occupied, monsieur,”
| she said at length,
| thread of sarcasm.
with a lurking
“1 should not mar-
vel since all Virginia lies just outside.”
He threw her a smile that softened
his clean cut mouth and lightened his
eyes. ‘All Virginia is not outside the
window—for me, mademoiselle.”
With a woman it is the new sensa- |
tion which captivates. Mistress Tillot-
son had been used enough to pretty
speeches. The beaus of half Virginia
had recited quatrains to her fan. Here
was an unaccustomed subtlety.
“Yet your eyes were there,” she re-
joined. “Had your thought fled still
farther? Oversea, mayhap?”
He met her look full eyed. “Shall I
tell you of what I was thinking? I
have seen many fair ladies in my own
land, gracious and kind belike, but
few whose charity could reach to an
object so far beneath them as a bond-
woman; fewer yet whose graciousness
would lead theaa to sue for pardon
from a stranger—like me.”
“1,” she answered more lightly, “was |
thinking of how the frost has set the
woods afire, Saw you ever such copper
reds and russet golds? And those
wedges of pink rock—they have the
look of raspberries crushed in curdled
milk. God is spendthrift of his hues.”
The country through which they
passed was hung with the marvelous
colors which a Virginian autumn lav-
ishes so prodigally. There were the ma-
roon of the wild rose stalk, the ripe
brown seams of butternut bark and the
shifting tints the sun lends the frosted
alder, the gray lichen and bronze fir
splotched with scarlet creeper and stip-
pled mosses like saffron butterflies.
Here and there showed the splash of a
bluebird’s wing or the vermilion crest
of a kingfisher.
“It is very fair,”
should be.”
Again a silence fell, while the road
swung across forest stretches, under
springing roofs through which the sky
swam in dazzles.
At last she spoke demurely:
“And of what else were you think-
ing, monsieur?”
“I was thinking what you are most
like. Some ladies are like snow moun-
tains that stand very far off, white
and beautiful, but cold—so cold you
cannot warm them, and so high. Some
are like blossoms, sweet and perfumed,
made for only a nosegay in the even-
ing. When the sun is hot they wither.
Some are like a song that one hears
and thinks lovely—hums it awhile and
forgets.”
“And which of these am I, sir?”
“You are like a sword—slim and shin-
he said, “as it
“1
i
| mountain peaks and ravines, wastes
i
very slowly,
i ———— ke ——
ing and straight and yet delicate. It
took centuries to make the sword,
mademoiselle. It will bend. bend. but
not break. It is sharp and cold to all
the world save one—the one who wears
it at his side. But to his touch it be-
comes wxlive to ward him harm. to
guard his life, to keep his honor.”
“An we were truly swords,” she
flashed. *‘we ladies of Virginia, there
were less of bitterness in this fair
colony of ours.”
“So the sword has the temper!” he |
cried, his eyes kindling. “It is not for
ornament alone! And these troubles
of the colonies—they strike so deeply
then? Do even the ladies of a land
such as this feel the sting?”
She gazed out toward the low knob-
bed hills limned against the deepening
sky. her elbow on the window sill, her
chin in her gloved hand, silent. Above
them in sun stained air shreds of torn
clouds folded away like dreams. From
near by came the startled flutter of
field larks and the rustle of ripening
corn. .
The road curved quickly and lurched
into a pine forest, where the day filmed
to twilight and the hoofs fell noiseless- |
ly into a carpet of brown needles. It
was a pleasant way, full of mingled
edors, all strangely pure and agreeable,
where clamorous wood things piped to
a.musical silence. ’ i
“Tig not all Virginia, after all, that |
one sees here, monsieur,” she said slow- |
Iy after a time. “Far to the west of us
is a vast region, raw, full veined and
of scattered tensnts. There are great
waiting seed and hoe, plateaus and
woodlands where the musket and the
ax are never silent. Deer run in the
brake. Wolves race along the ridges. |
There strong men have lived and
toiled and fought back the savages
and cleared themselves homes. Their
children have grown up unyielding like |
the granite in the mountain’s heart, un- |
trammeled like its torrents. And this
life amid the silences has taught them.
a justice that may not be bought, a |
strength that knows neither fear nor |
favor. The region you see here, mon- |
sieur, to this great weave I speak of is :
but the raveled edge.
“Here broad rivers run brackish with
tidewater, and ships lie at the wharfs. |
They bring to our manor houses all of
luxury and refinement which Virginia |
tobacco can buy. And here the planters |
—for Virginia was first settled by gen- |
tlemen, monsieur — choose to put on
courtliness and dress in gold lace and |
make a bit of London for themselves!
on the edge of the wilderness.
“Just beyond those hills to the south- |
ward is Williamsburg, the capital they |
have built. It has a college and a |
court. There the cocks are ever fight-
ing, the horses are ever running, the
fiddles are ever playing, and there in|
his palace sits the royal governor his |
majesty is pleased to put over his colo- ’
nials, levying on their leaf and sneer-!
ing at their buckskins.”
“The Earl of Dunmore?”
“Aye, my lord the earl. Think you he |
knows one whit more of this Virginia
than does the king, a thousand leagues
away? He drinks in his palace and
drives his white ‘horses and bullies his
burgesses, the representatives whom |
the people have elected. They must’
pleasure him or he dissolves them. The
king has forgot that the Virginians are!
Englishmen and that Englishmen love |
freedom.”
“And Englishwomen, too,” he said.
“We can do little,” she went on. “We
wear no swords. All we can do is to
hope and to wait.”
“Little!” There was a thrill in his
tone. “Little! You call such a hope,
such a feeling, small? You think it val-
ueless or weak? Ah, mademoiselle,
know you what makes a lady adorable
to a man’s heart, what makes him
worship her? It is that she inspires
him; that is it—not to dress for her or
bow or sing her little songs, but to
toil, to struggle, to fight, to die maybe |
—something high like the stars. Man
has a want for two things—a cause to |
dght for first, and then—then a one, a
perfect one, a loved face, to wait and
smile on him when he has won.
“With this a man could do miracles. |
Ab, it could make of a poor nobody a |
king, an emperor! I, even I, mademoi- |
selle, a stranger from another land—I |
could fight so well for these great |
things, for this Virginia of yours, if
I—if I” — i
He paused. There was a tense mo-
ment.
Then the air filled itself with a long,
dull sigh, and on its train came a sud-
den snapping of dead boughs, an un-
jointed, cracking report, and both look-
ed up startled. :
A strange faraway circumstance had
had part in this. Indians had not been |
used to fell trees as did their white!
conquerors. Instead they ‘cut deep
rings into the bark and let nature be
axman. These trunks fell when dry
rot had done its work, sometimes in
storms, often” when no wind stirred,
crashing in a forested silence. A quar-
ter century before perhaps a Matta-
pony brave had thus girdled a great
pine with his tomahawk, and it was
this dead tree, its limbs now white as |
bleached wolf bones, which was now.’
after its time, leaning to its fall from
the roadside.
A shriek burst from Anne's lips as
she saw the toppling bulk through the
window, and she started to her feet.
Simultaneously came a howl of terror |
from Rashleigh and a leaping jerk,
from the horses as he tried to lash |
them to safety. !
There was an instant when the huge
bole seemed to hang motionless in the
air above them, an instant in which
Anne frenziedly wrenched open the
door and made as if to leap out. The
same instant Armand seized her, drag-
ged her back and threw himself and |
her against the rear wall of the char- |
iot.
She struggled, but he forced her back
and held her as the groaning mass
came to earth with a crash that rocked |
the ground.
I its way through.
Anne, conscious even in her ecstasy of
fright of a sense of safety in his arms,
felt the body of the coach crush like an
eggshell, She had hidden her face on
his breast and shut her eyes, waiting
the end. The whole world was a splin-
ter of glass, a ripping of boarding, a
sickening jumble of thuds, through
which stabbed the agonized squeals of
the horses. :
Then there was stillness, broken by
Rashleigh’s sobbing scream:
“De good Lawd, Mis’ Anne!
Lawd! Is yo’ daid?’
She opened her eyes and looked up.
The riven trunk lay right athwart the
De good
He forced her back.
forward cushions, where it had crashed
A great, gnarled
limb, broken off, thrust itself a yard
from her face, and through the jagged
edges of the top she saw the far foliage
swaying. Armand’s face bent above
her. It was white and strained with
an anguish that was slipping away,
but it was calm.
Rashleigh’s head appeared at the
wrecked window, his features blue’
black with fear.
“Bress Gord!” Ne stammered, his
grizzled forelock. working. ‘“Bress his
name! So yo’ ain’ hurt, honey? Den I
gwineter ketch de hosses ‘fore dey
scare missus to def!”
The head withdrew, and Anne tried
to smile up at Armand.
“We are safe,” she said, speaking
slowly, like a child. “I know. 'Twas--
so sudden. Let me—wait a moment.”
She closed her eyes again, sick and
faint in the reaction.
He did not speak at once, but she felt
his arms, which were under and around
her, shake with a little tremor and
draw her closer.
“Suppose,” she breathed, her eyes
! stoll closed — “suppose it had struck
' nearer?’
“We should not have felt it—a quick
death and merciful.”
She shuddered.
“They would have found us—so,” he
said, with an underbreath.
She lifted her head at this and start-
ed, the color coming back to her lips.
“Help me out.”
Stooping under the splintered door
frame, he assisted her to the ground.
It was a hurly of broken branches,
sprangling spokes, thrusting springs
and distorted fragments of wood. A
snapped limb a foot in thickness lay
with its end upon the bent and twisted
step.
“Had I leaped it would have struck
me!”
“Yes,” he answered.
“So swift and terrible!” she said, her
voice catching. “Like a bolt from a
cloud — like the judgment. That mo-
ment—I would not live it again for
worlds!”
He spoke with a flame in his cheeks.
“And I-I would I might! Ah, I would
endure all agonies for that moment
again, that moment when”’—
“Monsieur!”
He stopped at the indignation in her
tone.
“Let us go,” she said. “Gladden Hall
is just behind these pines.”
“I beg you”’—
“Bethink, sir,” she added coldly,
“that so late as yesterday I had never
seen you!”
“So late as yesterday!” he cried. “To
measure tll things by the hands of the
clock! What has time to do with the
feeling of the heart? Is death all that
comes suddenly, unexpectedly? Are
there no sweeter things that come as
' swiftly? Ah, a man can live a year in
an hour, mademoiselle—a lifetime with-
in one little day. Yesterday, you say?
Mademoiselle, yesterday for me were
only dim waters and gray sky; now
there are flowers and birds and laugh-
ter and all glad things. Shall I tell you
what has changed it all? The moment
you spoke to me on the wharf, the hour
we have ridden side by side along the
field, most of all, mademoiselle, the
moment you will not have me tell you
of, that one moment I lived when death
came falling out of the sky upon us,
when you cried out—when”—
“Stop!” she protested, her hands to
her red cheeks.
“When your face was on my shoul-
der—I felt your breath! You clung to
me—to me—you, the fairest lady God
has made! My arms were around you.”
“Oh!” she gasped. “No more! You
have no right”’—
“Right?”
“No!” she cried stormily, her breast
rising and falling. “No! You presume
upon a danger into which fate thrust
me without my wish. Why, we have
but ridden a half league. I know not
even your name! Who are you to speak
thus to me?”
“Who am I?” repeated the young man
slowly, the rich color dyeing his face.
“I am—only a Frenchman, mademoi-
selle, only a man who gazed upon your
face in a crowd and whom—whom you
asked to ride beside you in the coach.”
( Continued next week.)