the
lawn; then down to the gate which opened upon the beach. He would have
gone further; but there Aimee stopped, reminding him of the general
order against breaking bounds.

"That is all very well for the whites; and for us, when the whites have
their eyes upon us," said Vincent. "But we are not prisoners; and there
is not a prisoner abroad to-night. Come--only as far as the mangroves!
We shall not be missed: and if we should be, we can be within the gate
in two minutes."

"I dare not," said Aimee, with a longing look, however, at the pearly
sands, and the creaming waves that now overspread them, now lapsed in
the gleam of the moon. The dark shadow of the mangroves lay but a
little way on. It was true that two minutes would reach them; but she
still said, "I dare not."

"Who is there?" cried the sentinel, in his march past the gate.

"No strangers, Claude. Any news on your watch?"

"None, Mademoiselle."

"All quiet over towards Saint Marc?" inquired Vincent.

"All quiet there, General; and everywhere else when the last reports
came round, ten minutes ago."

"Very well: pass on, good Claude. Come, come!" he said to Aimee; "who
knows when we may have a moonlight hour again!"

He would not bide another refusal, but, by gentle violence, drew her out
upon the beach, telling the sentinel, as they passed between him and the
water, that if they were inquired for, he might call: they should be
within hearing. Claude touched his cap, showed his white teeth in a
broad smile, and did not object.

Once among the mangroves, Aimee could not repent. Their arched
branches, descending into the water, trembled with every wave that
gushed in among them, and stirred the mild air. The moonlight quivered
on their dark green leaves, and on the transparent pool which lay among
their roots.

"Now, would you not have been sorry if I had not made you come?" said
Vincent.

"If we could only stay--stay here for ever!" she exclaimed, leaning back
against the bush under which they sat. "Here, amidst the whispering of
the winds and the dash of the waters, you would listen no more for the
roll of the drum, or the booming of cannon at Saint Marc. I am weary of
our life at Pongaudin."

"Weary of rumour of wars, before we have the wars themselves, love."

"We can never hear anything of my brothers while we are on these terms
with France. Day after day comes on--day after day, and we have to
toil, and plan, and be anxious; a