re
not deserved.'

'And the jewels?' she exclaimed hoarsely.

'They are yours. They are not mine. They are nothing to me. Take them,
and say that you do not think of me--Nay, I cannot say the words,
Mademoiselle.'

'But there is something--else! What else?' she cried, her head thrown
back, her eyes, bright as any wild animal's, searching mine. 'Ha! my
brother? What of him? What of him, sir?'

'For him, Mademoiselle--I would prefer that you should tell me no more
than I know already,' I answered in a low voice. 'I do not wish to be in
that affair. But yes; there is one thing I have not mentioned. You are
right.'

She sighed so deeply that I caught the sound.

'It is,' I continued slowly, 'that you will permit me to remain at
Cocheforet for a few days while the soldiers are here. I am told that
there are twenty men and two officers quartered in your house. Your
brother is away. I ask to be permitted, Mademoiselle, to take his place
for the time, and to be privileged to protect your sister and yourself
from insult. That is all.'

She raised her hand to her head. After a long pause,--

'The frogs!' she muttered, 'they croak! I can not hear.'

Then, to my surprise, she turned quickly and suddenly on her heel, and
walked over the bridge, leaving me standing there. For a moment I stood
aghast, peering after her shadowy figure, and wondering what had taken
her. Then, in a minute or less, she came quickly back to me, and I
understood. She was crying.

'M. de Barthe,' she said, in a trembling voice, which told me that the
victory was won, 'is there nothing else? Have you no other penance for
me?'

'None, Mademoiselle.'

She had drawn the shawl over her head, and I no longer saw her face.

'That is all you ask?' she murmured.

'That is all I ask--now,' I answered.

'It is granted,' she said slowly and firmly. 'Forgive me if I seem to
speak lightly--if I seem to make little of your generosity or my shame;
but I can say no more now. I am so deep in trouble and so gnawed by
terror that--I cannot feel anything keenly to-night, either shame or
gratitude. I am in a dream; God grant that it may pass as a dream!
We are sunk in trouble. But for you and what you have done, M. de
Barthe--I--' she paused and I heard her fighting with the sobs which
choked her--'forgive me... I am overwrought. And my--my feet are cold,'
she added, suddenly and irrelevantly. 'Will you take me home?'

'Ah, Mademoiselle,' I cried remorsefull