s leg, and
both men were dashed violently down upon the stones, Angelot underneath.

His knife had already dropped from his hand. Ratoneau snatched it up,
and knelt over him, one knee on his chest, one hand on his throat, the
knife in the other. Looking up into the dark, furious eyes bent upon
him, watching the evil smile that broadened round the handsome, cruel
mouth, Angelot felt that his last moment was come. That face leaning
over him was the face of death itself. The little uncle would not be
long alone in the unknown country to which this same hand had sent him.

"How about your pretty wife now, Monsieur Angelot?" the snarling voice
said, and the sharp knife trembled and flashed in the sunshine.

Angelot set his teeth, and closed his eyes that he might not see it.
Ratoneau went on saying something, but he did not hear, for in those few
moments he dreamed a dream. Helene's face was bending over his, her soft
hair falling upon him, her lips touching his. Was death already over,
and was this Paradise?

He came back to life with a violent start, at the discharge of a pistol
close by; and then the weight on his chest became suddenly unbearable,
and the knife dropped from his enemy's hand, and the cruel face fell
aside, changing into something still more dreadful. In another minute he
had dragged himself out from under Ratoneau's dead body, and staring
wildly round, saw Riette holding a pistol.

"Ah! do not look at me so!" she cried, as she met her cousin's horrified
eyes. "I had to save you! Papa will not be angry."

"He is avenged. You are a heroine, Riette!" he said, and held out his
arms to her; but the child flung away her little weapon which had done
so great a deed, and threw herself upon the ground in a passionate agony
of tears.

CHAPTER XXIX

THE DISAPPOINTMENT OF MONSIEUR URBAIN

It was an afternoon late in November. A wild wind was blowing, and
shadows were flying across the country and the leafless woods which
rushed and cried like the sea. A great full moon shone in the sky,
chased over and constantly obscured by thin racing clouds, silver and
copper-coloured on the blue-black depths of air.

Madame de la Mariniere was alone in her old room. The candles were
lighted on her work-table, her embroidery frame stood beside it, the
needle carelessly stuck in; a fire of logs was flaming up the wide black
chimney. Anne was not working, but wandering restlessly up and down the
room. Once she wen