bulldog. I have
always wondered till now what the nationality of the dog was. The
bulldog neither forsakes nor forgives; he is an Englishman."

This declaration was succeeded by another interval of silence. The
Englishman was thinking of his father; the thoughts of Maurice were
anywhere but at the chateau; the Colonel was contemplating them both,
shrewdly.

"Well, to the ladies, gentlemen; it is half after nine."

The countess was seated at the piano, improvising. Madame stood before
the fireplace, arranging the pieces on a chess board. In the center
of the room was a table littered with books, magazines and illustrated
weeklies.

"Do you play chess, Monsieur?" said Madame to Fitzgerald.

"I do not."

"Well, Colonel, we will play a game and show him how it is done."

Fitzgerald drew up a chair and sat down at Madame's elbow. He followed
every move she made because he had never seen till now so round and
shapely an arm, hands so small and white, tipped with pink filbert
nails. He did not learn the game so quickly as might be. He, like
Maurice, was pondering over the unusual position in which he found
himself; but analysis of any sort was not his forte; so he soon forgot
all save the delicate curve of Madame's chin and throat, the soft ripple
of her laughter, the abysmal gray of her eyes.

"Monsieur le Capitaine," said the countess, "what shall I sing to you?"

"To me?" said Maurice. "Something from Abt."

Her fingers ran lightly over the keys, and presently her voice rose in
song, a song low, sweet, and sad. Maurice peered out of the window
into the shades of night. Visions passed and repassed the curtain of
darkness. Once or twice the countess turned her head and looked at him.
It was not only a handsome face she saw, but one that carried the mark
of refinement.... Maurice was thinking of the lonely princess and her
grave dark eyes. He possessed none of that power from which princes
derive benefits; what could he do? And why should he interest himself in
a woman who, in any event, could never be anything to him, scarcely even
a friend? He smiled.

If Fitzgerald was not adept at analysis, he was. Nothing ever entered
his mind or heart that he could not separate and define. It was strange;
it was almost laughable; to have fenced as long and adroitly as he had
fenced, and then to be disarmed by one who did not even understand the
foils! Surrender? Why not?... By and by his gaze traveled to the chess
players.