a swordsman, look
like? Describe him for me."

"I cannot, you foolish child! Do you suppose I noticed his features? He
was tall and powerful; but beyond that I saw nothing, except his
laughing eyes as they met mine when my dagger touched his breast."

"It is not every day one meets a man who can laugh with a dagger at his
breast," exclaimed Marie, half-jestingly, half-serious. "I must indeed
see him. I shall know no peace until I do."

"Then your desire is granted," said Marguerite, "for, if I am not
mistaken, there is the man himself across the street at this moment.
Yes, I am sure it is he; see, he throws a kiss to that fisher-maiden
opposite. That will show you the true character of your hero."

Despite Marguerite's sarcasm, the man whom the two girls now beheld was
a noble specimen of humanity. Full six feet four in height, with broad,
athletic shoulders, straight, clean limbs, and a face as bright as a
schoolboy's, though his age could not have been under thirty, he was a
man who could not fail to attract attention wherever he might be seen.

He was clad in the height of the fashion, and his gay apparel, with its
lace trimmings and jewelled ornaments, bespoke him no commonplace
adventurer. But the most striking feature in his appearance was his
hair, which fell in sunny locks upon his shoulders from under his velvet
hat with its spreading plume. In truth he looked more like a Norse
Viking of old than a cavalier of the sixteenth century.

"What a noble fellow!" was Marie's involuntary exclamation, as she
gazed upon him.

"Noble!" said Marguerite, scornfully. "You surely forget what you are
saying. Would you call his conduct of last night noble?"

"Oh, as to his conduct and character that is another matter. But what a
magnificent carriage he has; and what shoulders! I should like to meet
such a man as that. See, he has turned his eyes this way. Whoever he is,
I should certainly fall in love with him if I knew him. It seems to me
he is like what Charlemagne must have been; or--yes--like Charles de la
Pommeraye!"

Marguerite started at the name.

"What do you know of La Pommeraye?" she exclaimed.

"Have you forgotten, or were you not present the other day when M. de
Pontbriand was lamenting the death of his friend in Paris? You have
surely heard him speak of him. I wept when I heard of his untimely end,
for I have ever had fond recollections of Charles de la Pommeraye."

"You, Marie? What can you mean? Yo