him to me.

CHAPTER IX

THE FLAMES OF JEALOUSY

My only faith in Hugo Chevet rested in his natural resentment of
Cassion's treachery relative to my father's fortune. He would feel
that he had been cheated, deceived, deprived of his rightful share of
the spoils.

The man cared nothing for me, as had already been plainly demonstrated,
yet, but for this conspiracy of La Barre and his Commissaire, it would
have been his privilege to have handled whatever property Pierre la
Chesnayne left at time of his death. He would have been the legal
guardian of an heiress, instead of the provider for an unwelcomed
child of poverty.

He had been tricked into marrying me to Cassion, feeling that he had
thus rid himself of an incumbrance, and at the same time gained a
friend and ally at court, and now discovered that by that act he had
alienated himself from all chance of ever controlling my inheritance.
The knowledge that he had thus been outwitted would rankle in the
man's brain, and he was one to seek revenge. It was actuated by this
thought that I had sent for him, feeling that perhaps at last we had a
common cause.

Whether, or not, Cassion would take my dismissal as final I could not
feel assured. No doubt he would believe my decision the outburst of a
woman's mood, which he had best honor, but in full faith that a few
days would bring to me a change of mind. The man was too pronounced an
egotist to ever confess that he could fail in winning the heart of any
girl whom he condescended to honor, and the very injury which my
repulse had given to his pride would tend to increase his desire to
possess me.

However little he had cared before in reality, now his interest would
be aroused, and I would seem to him worthy of conquest. He would never
stop after what had occurred between us until he had exhausted every
power he possessed. Yet I saw nothing more of him that night, although
I sat just within the flap of the tent watching the camp between me
and the river. Shadowing figures glided about, revealed dimly by the
fires, but none of these did I recognize as the Commissaire, nor did I
hear his voice.

I had been alone for an hour, already convinced that the soldier had
failed to deliver my message, when my Uncle Chevet finally emerged
from the shadows, and announced his presence. He appeared a huge,
shapeless figure, his very massiveness yielding me a feeling of
protection, and I arose, and joined him. His greeting