prouder than I. Remember, you are not to
hint at what I propose to do, nor who I am. See! It is all because you
read something which was not intended for your eyes. Be my friend, or be
my enemy, it is a matter of indifference to me. You have only yourself
to blame. Had you gone about your business and not intruded where
you were not wanted, neither you nor your friend would be here. No
interference from you, Monsieur; that is the understanding." She raised
her hand and made a sign, and the troopers took themselves off. "Now you
may go--to the countess, if you wish; though I dare say that she will
not find you in the best of tempers."

"I dare say she won't," said Maurice.

Fitzgerald sat by a window in the music room. He had resurrected from no
one knew where a clay with a broken stem. There was a thoughtful cast
to his countenance, and he puffed away, blissfully unconscious of, or
indifferent to, the close proximity of the velvet curtains. A thrifty
housewife, could she have seen the smoke rise and curl and lose itself
in the folds above, would have experienced the ecstasy of anxiety and
perturbation. But there was no thrifty housewife at the Red Chateau,
nothing but dreams of conquest and revenge.

Twilight was gathering about, soft-footed and shadowful. Long reaches
of violet and vermilion clouds pressed thickly on the western line of
hills. The mists began to rise, changing from opal to sapphire. The
fantastic melodies of wandering gypsy songs went throbbing through the
room; rollicking gavots, Hungarian dances, low and slumbrous nocturnes.
As the music grew sadder and dreamier, the smoker moved uneasily.

Somehow, it gripped his heart; and the long years of loneliness returned
and overwhelmed him. They marshaled past, thirteen in all; and there
were glimpses of deserts, snowcapped mountains, men moving in the blur
of smoke, long watches in the night. Thirteen years in God-forsaken
outposts, with never a sight of a woman's face, the sound of her voice,
the swish of her gown, nor a touch of the spell which radiates from her
presence.

He had never made friends. Others had come up to him and passed him, and
had gone to the cities, leaving him to bear the brunt of the cold,
the heat, the watchfulness. He had made his bed; he was too much his
father's son to whine because it was hard. Often he used to think how a
few words, from a pride humbled, would have removed the barrier. But the
words never came, nor was