t we had been too far away to distinguish anything about
it except that there was only one large painting hanging in the center.
Now that I was nearer, I could see the painting, and I caught my breath
in astonishment; for there was the portrait of the lady of my dream,
smiling down on me.

Wrexler caught my arm, "That's the girl--the one I saw on the stairs."

"That is the portrait of Helene, Mademoiselle d'Harcourt, daughter of
the Lord of Harcourt, who owned this chateau," de Lacy's voice broke in.

Wrexler and I exclaimed simultaneously, "But I----" and "She is----"

De Lacy looked at us strangely. "It is from her that the chateau got its
new name Rougemont--_Red Mountain_. Before that, it was called Hotel
d'Harcourt. Mademoiselle Helene was very beautiful, as you can see,
_Messieurs_, and she had many suitors. At last, from among them, she
chose an English lord. One of the discarded lovers, Black George--_le
Georges Noir_--vowed that she should not belong to the Englishman, or
ever leave Rougemont.

"She laughed, Mademoiselle Helene, and her father, the Lord d'Harcourt,
laughed too, for he had many men at arms and was rich and powerful.
Black George did not laugh, he only set his lips grimly. The wedding day
came and the beautiful Helene married the English lord in the great
hall, but just as he took her in his arms for the nuptial kiss, there
arose a great noise outside. It was Black George attacking the chateau.

"The English lord, with Helene's kiss warm upon his lips, went forth to
battle. There was a fight such as these peaceful lands had never seen,
and the mountain ran red with blood. Black George was the victor. He
slew the Englishman, he slew the Lord of Harcourt, and his men hacked to
pieces the defenders of the chateau.

"Black George, followed by his men, their swords red with blood, came
into the great hall where Helene d'Harcourt sat on the throne, her face
whiter than her wedding dress. Black George flung her lover's body at
her feet, and the women of the household who were crouched about the
throne cried aloud with terror. The fair Helene did not cry, nor did she
moan; she only looked straight at Black George, and there was that in
her gaze that silenced everyone in the great hall; even Black George
stepped back a pace.

"Then Helene d'Harcourt rose and went down to her love, the English lord
who for a brief moment had been her husband. She knelt beside him and
kissed his cold lips; then she