ed there with my arms round the best
of masters and this despairing young thing. Presently, coming to the
end of her strength and courage, she fell back on M. l'Abbe Coignard's
breast, and we managed all three to scramble to the top of the bank
again. He helped her up daintily, with a certain easy grace that was
always his. Then he led the way to a great beech-tree at the foot of
which was a wooden bench, on which he seated her.

Taking his place beside her:

"Mademoiselle," he said gently, "you need have no fear. Say nothing just
yet, but be assured it is a friend sits by you."

Next, turning to me, my master went on:

"Tournebroche, my son, we may congratulate ourselves on having brought
this strange adventure to a good end. But I have left my hat down yonder
on the river bank; albeit it has lost pretty near all its lace and is
thread-bare with long service, it was still good to guard my old head,
sorely tried by years and labours, against sun and rain. Go see, my son,
if it may still be found where I dropped it. And if you discover it,
bring it me, I beg,--likewise one of my shoe buckles, which I see I have
lost. For my part I will stay by this damsel we have rescued and watch
over her slumber."

I ran back to the spot we had just quitted and was lucky enough to find
my good master's hat. The buckle I could not espy anywhere. True, I did
not take any very excessive pains to hunt for it, having never all my
life seen my good master with more than one shoe buckle. When I returned
to the tree, I found the damsel still in the same state, sitting quite
motionless with her head leant against the trunk of the beech. I noticed
now that she was of a very perfect beauty. She wore a silk mantle
trimmed with lace, very neat and proper, and on her feet light shoes,
the buckles of which caught the moonbeams.

I could not have enough of examining her. Suddenly she opened her
drooping lids, and casting a look that was still misty at M. Coignard
and me, she began in a feeble voice, but with the tone and accent, I
thought, of a person of gentility:

"I am not ungrateful, sirs, for the service you have done me from
feelings of humanity; but I cannot truthfully tell you I am glad, for
the life to which you have restored me is a curse, a hateful, cruel
torment."

At these sad words my good master, whose face wore a look of compassion,
smiled softly, for he could not really think life was to be for ever
hateful to so young and p