over rolling water.

"Yes, it is a dream," I agreed. "You will soon wake. Where would you
like the wakening to take place, mademoiselle? At Meudon?"

She looked up with a smile. "What would you like to know about me?"
she asked, with a sober directness, which, like her smile, was friendly
and brave. "You heard something last night. I am entirely willing to
tell you more. But is it not wise for us to know as little as possible
about each other?"

"Why, mademoiselle?"

She hesitated. "As we stand now," she explained slowly, "we have no
past nor future. We live in a fantasy. We are cold and hungry, but
life is so strange that we forget our bodies. It is all as unreal as a
mirage. When it is over, we part. If we part knowing nothing of each
other, it will all seem like a dream."

I thought a moment. "Then you think that we must guard against growing
interested in each other, mademoiselle?"

She looked at me gravely. "Yes. Do you not think so, monsieur?
'Friends for the night's bivouac.' Those were your words."

Now was here a woman who felt deeply and talked lightly? I had not met
such. "It is wise," I rejoined, "but difficult." I took the crayon
from my pocket and began drawing faces on the white limestone rock at
my side. I drew idly and scowled at my work. "The Indians can do
better," I lamented. "Was your cousin, Benjamin Starling, clever with
his pencil, mademoiselle?"

She drew back, but she answered me fairly. "Very clever," she said
quietly. "It was a talent. Why do you ask, monsieur?"

"I find myself thinking of him." I dropped the crayon. "Listen,
mademoiselle. I must ask you some questions. Believe me, I have
reasons. Now as to your cousin,--is he alive?"

She looked off at the water. "I do not know, monsieur."

She had become another woman. I hated Benjamin Starling that his name
could so instantly sap the life from her tone.

"Please look at me," I begged irritably. "Mademoiselle, I think that I
must ask you to tell me more,--to tell me much more."

She rose. "Is it necessary?"

I bowed. "Else I should not ask it. Please sit, mademoiselle."

She sat where my hand pointed. "You know that we were Tories," she
began, in the quiet monotone I had learned to expect from her under
stress, "and that our family followed King James to France. My parents
died. I had no brothers or sisters, and so, a year ago, I came to the
Colonies where I had friends. Later, my