fe would be as broken as
hers; but a man has the world under his feet, scenes of action, changes
to soothe his hurt: a woman has little else but her needle.

All through the day and all through the night she remained on guard,
surrendering her vigil only to M. Ferraud. With cold cloths she kept
down the fever, wiping the hot face and hands. He would pull through,
the surgeon said, but he would have his nurse to thank. There was
something about the man the doctor did not understand: he acted as if
he did not care to live.

The morning found her still at her post. Breitmann awoke early, and
appeared to take little interest in his surroundings.

"Why do you waste your time?" his voice was colorless.

"I am not wasting my time, Karl."

His head rolled slowly over on the pillow till he could see outside.
Only two or three fishing-boats were visible.

"When will the yacht sail?"

Always that question! "Go to sleep. I will wake you when I see it."

"I've been a scoundrel, Hildegarde;" and he closed his eyes.

Where would she go when he left this room? For the future was always
rising up with this question. What would she do, how would she live?
She too shut her eyes.

The door opened. The visitor was M. Ferraud. He touched his lips with
a finger and stole toward the bed.

"Better?"

She nodded.

"Are you not dead for sleep?"

"It does not matter."

Breitmann's eyes opened, for his brain was wide awake. "Ferraud?"

"Yes. They wished me to say good-by for them."

"To me?" incredulously.

"They have none but good wishes."

"She will never know?"

"Not unless Mr. Fitzgerald tells her."

"Hildegarde, I had planned her abduction. Don't misunderstand. I have
sunk low indeed, but not so low as that. I wanted to harry them. They
would have left me free. She was to be a pawn. I shouldn't have hurt
her."

"You do not care to return to Germany?"

"Nor to France, M. Ferraud."

"There's a wide world outside. You will find room enough," diffidently.

"An outlaw?"

"Of a kind."

"Be easy. I haven't even the wish to be buried there. There is more
to the story, more than you know. My name is Herman Stueler . . . if I
live. There is not a drop of French blood in my veins. Breitmann died
on the field in the Soudan, and I took his papers." His eyes burned
into Ferraud's.

"Perhaps that would be the best way," replied M. Ferraud pensively.

"What shall I do with the money? It is unde