th, of every brook, of
every bridge--yes, of every wall and tree and rock! I have seen
you before--you and the others. You are strangers in my country!"

"Get out of my path," said the man, sullenly.

"Then give me that map you have made! I know what you are! You
come from across the Rhine!"

The man scowled and stepped towards her.

"You are a German spy!" she cried, passionately.

"You little fool!" he snarled, seizing her arm. He shook her
brutally; the scarlet skirts fluttered, a little rent came in the
velvet bodice, the heavy, shining hair tumbled down over her
eyes.

In a moment Marche had the man by the throat. He held him there,
striking him again and again in the face. Twice the man tried to
stab him with the steel compasses, but Marche dragged them out of
his fist and hammered him until he choked and spluttered and
collapsed on the ground, only to stagger to his feet again and
lurch into the thicket of second growth. There he tripped and
fell as Marche had fallen on the ivy, but, unlike Marche, he
wriggled under the bushes and ran on, stooping low, never
glancing back.

The impulse that comes to men to shoot when anything is running
for safety came over Marche for an instant. Instinctively he
raised his gun, hesitated, lowered it, still watching the running
man with cold, bright eyes.

"Well," he said, turning to the girl behind him, "he's gone now.
Ought I to have fired? Ma foi! I'm sorry I didn't! He has torn
your bodice and your skirt!"

The girl stood breathless, cheeks aflame, burnished tangled hair
shadowing her eyes.

"We have the map," she said, with a little gasp.

Marche picked up a crumpled roll of paper from the ground and
opened it. It contained a rough topographical sketch of the
surrounding country, a detail of a dozen small forest paths, a
map of the whole course of the river Lisse from its source to its
junction with the Moselle, and a beautiful plan of the Chateau de
Nesville.

"That is my house!" said the girl; "he has a map of my house! How
dare he!"

"The Chateau de Nesville?" asked Marche, astonished; "are you
Lorraine?"

"Yes! I'm Lorraine. Didn't you know it?"

"Lorraine de Nesville?" he repeated, curiously.

"Yes! How dares that German to come into my woods and make maps and
carry them back across the Rhine! I have seen him before--twice--drawing
and measuring along the park wall. I told my father, but he thinks only
of his balloons. I have seen others, too--o