had settled back against the logs of the hut, and was gazing
at the trees. Menard sat in silence for a few moments.

"Mademoiselle," he said at length, "I know that it will be hard for
you to rest until we have heard; but--" he hesitated, but she did not
help him, and he had to go on,--"I wish you would try."

"It would be of no use, M'sieu."

"I know,--I know. But we have much to keep in mind. It has been very
hard. Any one of us is likely to break. And you have not been so used
to this life as the Father and I."

"I know it," she said, still looking at the elm branches that bent
almost to the ground before them, "but when I lie down, and close my
eyes, and let my mind go, it seems as if I could not stand it. It is
not bad now; I can be very cool now. You see, M'sieu?" She turned
toward him with the trace of a smile. "But when I let go--perhaps you
do not know how it is; the thoughts that come, and the dreams,--when I
am awake and yet not awake,--and the feeling that it is not worth
while, this struggle, even to what it may bring if we succeed. It
makes the night a torture, and the dread of another day is even worse.
It is better to stay awake; it is better even to break. Anything is
better."

Menard looked down between his knees at the ground. He did not
understand what it was that lay behind her words. He started to speak,
then stopped. After a little he found himself saying words that came
to his lips with no effort; in fact, he did not seem able to check
them.

"It is not right that I should be here near you. I gave up that right
to-night. I gave it up yesterday. I have been proud, during these
years of fighting, that I was a soldier. I had thought, too, that I
was a man. It was hardly a week ago that I rebuked that poor boy for
what I have since done myself. I promised Major Provost that I would
take you safely to Frontenac. That I have failed is only a little
thing. I have said to you--no, you must not stop me. We have gone
already beyond that point. We understand now. I have tried to be to
you more than--than I had a right to be while you were in my care.
Danton did not know; Father Claude does not know. You know, because I
have told you. I have shown you in a hundred ways."

"No," she said, in a choking voice. "It is my fault. I allowed you."

He shook his head.

"That is nothing. It is not what you have done. It is not even what
you think. It is what I shall think and know all my life,--that I have