"I must return to camp, Mademoiselle. Let us postpone this subject. I
have more to say, but require to collect myself."

"I too have more to say, Captain."

Cary almost started on hearing these words, the tone of which struck him
as singular. He looked at Zulma, and found that her face was ashy pale.
Her eyes were gazing far away across the St. Lawrence. He fancied--was
it only a fancy?--that she was a little piqued.

"Shall we walk back to the mansion?" he asked almost timidly.

"If you please," was the quiet reply.

They advanced slowly across the open field, and up the avenue of trees,
speaking little, and that little only on such objects as caught their
eye on the way. Unconsciously they were fighting shy of each other. When
they reached the greensward in front of the mansion, they paused and
suddenly Zulma broke out into a hearty laugh.

"We are both children, sir," said she. "I thought you a great soldier
and I find you a child. I thought myself a strong-minded woman and I too
am a child."

And she burst out laughing again. Cary was puzzled, but could not
repress a smile. He did not ask her meaning, and smiled only because he
saw that her old serenity had returned.

Just then the setting sun poured through the intervening trees, flooding
the green with glory, and lifting the twain as it were in a kind of
transfiguration. They were idealized--he appearing like a knight of
legendary days, and she a queen of the fairy land. Both were beautiful
and both were happy once more.

Zulma knocked at the door, and the maid who answered the summons handed
her a letter. She opened it hurriedly, glanced over the page, and
throwing out her arms, uttered a moan of terror, while her eyes were
fixed wildly on the young officer.

"What is it, mademoiselle? What is it?"

"Pauline is dying!"

XI.

IN THE VALE OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH.

Cary's presentiment had come true. After his departure, Pauline
struggled against her fate for eight or ten days, but had finally to
succumb. One evening as she sat alone in her chamber, the forces of
nature suddenly gave way, she fell heavily to the floor in a swoon, and
was carried to her bed in the arms of her father. The physician treated
her at first as for a case of mere physical debility, resultant on her
long watches during the eight weeks of Singleton's illness, and the
extreme anxiety she had experienced for the safety of her friend. But
when the malady remained obstina