this thing had suffered by it--suffered far more
than the comrade whom he had laid down in the grave where, far off in
the noonday warmth, the young goats were at rest on the sod. When he
ceased, there was a long silence; he had lost even the memory of her in
the memory of the death that he had painted to her; and she was moved
with that wondering pain, that emotion, half dread and half regret, with
which the contemplation of calamities that have never touched, and
that can never touch them, will move women far more callous, far more
world-chilled than herself.

In the silence her hands toyed listlessly with the enamel bonbonniere,
whose silver had lost all its bright enameling, and was dinted and
dulled till it looked no more than lead. The lid came off at her touch
as she musingly moved it round and round; the chain and the ring fell
into her lap; the lid remained in her hand, its interior unspoiled and
studded in its center with a name in turquoise letters--"Venetia."

She started as the word caught her eye and broke her reverie; the color
came warmer into her cheek; she looked closer and closer at the box;
then, with a rapid movement, turned her head and gazed at her companion.

"How did you obtain this?"

"The chain, madame? It had fallen in the water."

"The chain! No! the box!"

He looked at her in surprise.

"It was given me very long ago."

"And by whom?"

"By a young child, madame."

Her lips parted slightly, the flush on her cheeks deepened; the
beautiful face, which the Roman sculptor had said only wanted tenderness
to make it perfect, changed, moved, was quickened with a thousand
shadows of thought.

"The box is mine! I gave it! And you?"

He rose to his feet, and stood entranced before her, breathless and
mute.

"And you?" she repeated.

He was silent still, gazing at her. He knew her now--how had he been so
blind as never to guess the truth before, as never to know that those
imperial eyes and that diadem of golden hair could belong alone but to
the women of one race?

"And you?" she cried once more, while she stretched her hand out to him.
"And you--you are Philip's friend? you are Bertie Cecil?"

Silently he bowed his head; not even for his brother's sake, or for the
sake of his pledged word, could he have lied to her.

But her outstretched hands he would not see, he would not take. The
shadow of an imputed crime was stretched between them.

"Petite Reine!" he murmured. "Ah, God