which was
neither a reproach nor a refusal.

"The souvenir is in my heart, the hair will never leave my bosom! We
live in an unworthy age. I can not boast of wearing your colors in
everybody's eyes, and yet I should like to wear a sign of my bondage."

She let her hair fall down her back again, but seemed embarrassed as to
how to execute his wish.

"I can not cut my hair with my teeth," she said, with a smile which
betrayed a double row of pearls.

Octave took a stiletto from his pocket.

"Why do you always carry this stiletto?" asked the young woman, in a
changed voice; "it frightens me to see you armed thus."

"Fear nothing," said Gerfaut, who did not reply to her question, "I will
respect the hair which serves you as a crown. I know where I must cut
it, and, if my ambition is great, my hand shall be discreet."

Madame de Bergenheim had no confidence in his moderation, and, fearing
to leave her beautiful hair to her lover's mercy, she took the stiletto
and cut off a little lock which she drew through her fingers and then
offered to him, with a loving gesture that doubled the value of the
gift. At this moment, hunting-horns resounded in the distance.

"I must leave you now!" exclaimed Clemence, "I must. My dear love, let
me go now; say good-by to me."

She leaned toward him and presented her forehead to receive this adieu.
It was her lips which met Octave's, but this kiss was rapid and fleeting
as a flash of light. Withdrawing from the arms which would yet retain
her, she darted out of the grotto, and in a moment had disappeared in
one of the shady paths.

For some time, plunged in deep reflection, Gerfaut stood on the same
spot; but at last arousing himself from this dreamy languor, he climbed
the rock so as to reach the top of the cliff. After taking a few steps
he stopped with a frightened look, as if he had espied some venomous
reptile in his path. He could see, through the bushes which bordered
the crest of the plateau at the top of the ladder cut in the rock,
Bergenheim, motionless, and in the attitude of a man who is trying to
conceal himself in order that he may watch somebody. The Baron's eyes
not being turned in Gerfaut's direction, he could not tell whether he
was the object of this espionage, or whether the lay of the land allowed
him to see Madame de Bergenheim, who must be under the sycamores by this
time. Uncertain as to what he should do, he remained motionless, half
crouched down upon the