ed to contract till the pain of it hurt her; then,
as a new thought flashed into her mind, it was freed again and began
pounding hard against her breast. She must prevent him from leaving
Jersey, from leaving her. What she might feel personally would have no
effect upon him; she would appeal to him from a different stand-point.

"You must not go," she said. "You must not leave your father alone,
Maitre Ranulph."

For a minute he did not reply. Through his dark wretchedness one thought
pierced its way: this girl was his good friend.

"Then I'll take him with me," he said.

"He would die in the awful cold," she answered. "Nannin-gia, you must
stay."

"Eh ben, I will think!" he said presently, with an air of heavy
resignation, and, turning, walked away. Her eyes followed him. As she
went back to her booth she smiled: he had come one step her way. He
would not go.

CHAPTER XIII

When Detricand left the Vier Marchi he made his way along the Rue
d'Egypte to the house of M. de Mauprat. The front door was open, and a
nice savour of boiling fruit came from within. He knocked, and instantly
Guida appeared, her sleeves rolled back to her elbows, her fingers
stained with the rich red of the blackberries on the fire.

A curious shade of disappointment came into her face when she saw who it
was. It was clear to Detricand that she expected some one else; it was
also clear that his coming gave no especial pleasure to her, though she
looked at him with interest. She had thought of him more than once since
that day when the famous letter from France to the chevalier was read.
She had instinctively compared him, this roystering, notorious fellow,
with Philip d'Avranche, Philip the brave, the ambitious, the conquering.
She was sure that Philip had never over-drunk himself in his life; and
now, looking into the face of Detricand, she could tell that he had been
drinking again. One thing was apparent, however: he was better dressed
than she ever remembered seeing him, better pulled together, and bearing
himself with an air of purpose.

"I've fetched back your handkerchief--you tied up my head with it, you
know," he said, taking it from his pocket. "I'm going away, and I wanted
to thank you."

"Will you not come in, monsieur?" she said.

He readily entered the kitchen, still holding the handkerchief in his
hand, but he did not give it to her. "Where will you sit?" she said,
looking round. "I'm very busy. You mustn't mind m