ill choose others."

The books were: _Diana of the Crossways, Richard Feverel,_ Henri
Lavedan's _Le Duel_, Maeterlinck's _Pelleas et Melisande, Don Quixote de
la Mancha_, in Spanish, a volume of Virgil's _Eclogues_, and the _Life
of the Chevalier Bayard_, by the Loyal Servitor. Ste. Marie stared at
her.

"Do you read Spanish," he demanded, "and Latin, as well as French and
English?"

"My mother was Spanish," said she. "And as for Latin, I began to read it
with my father when I was a child. Shall I leave the books here?"

Ste. Marie took up the _Bayard_ and held it between his hands.

"It is worn from much reading, Mademoiselle," he said.

"It is the best of all," said she. "The very best of all. I didn't know
I had brought you that."

She made a step toward him as if she would take the book away, and over
it their eyes met and were held. In that moment it may have come to them
both who she was, who so loved the knight without fear and without
reproach--the daughter of art Irish adventurer of ill repute--for their
faces began suddenly to flush with red, and after an instant the girl
turned away.

"It is of no consequence," said she. "You may keep the book if you care
to."

And Ste. Marie said, very gently: "Thank you, Mademoiselle. I will keep
it for a little while."

So she went out of the room and left him alone.

This was at noon on the sixth day, and, after he had swallowed hastily
the lunch which had been set before him, Ste. Marie fell upon the books
like a child upon a new box of sweets. Like the child again, it was
difficult for him to choose among them. He opened one and then another,
gloating over them all, but in the end he chose the _Bayard_, and for
hours lost himself among the high deeds of the Preux Chevalier and his
faithful friends--among whom, by the way, there was a Ste. Marie who
died nobly for France. It was late afternoon when at last he laid the
book down with a sigh and settled himself more comfortably among the
pillows.

The sun was not in the room at that hour, but from where he lay he could
see it on the tree-tops, gold upon green. Outside his south window the
leaves of a chestnut which stood there quivered and rustled gently under
a soft breeze. Delectable odors floated in to Ste. Marie's nostrils, and
he thought how very pleasant it would be if he were lying on the turf
under the trees instead of bedridden in this upper chamber, which he had
come to hate with a bitter hatred.