d me
to ask of you not to forget her; that she remembered you daily."

So did I remember her daily.

"And you have gone away and left the field to your brother and rival?"
I said.

"Babache," replied Gaston, coming and sitting on the arm of my chair,
his arm about my neck, "the afternoon before I left I sat with
Francezka--I call her that to you, but to no other man--I sat with
Francezka in the Italian garden at the foot of Petrarch's statue. I
had a volume of Petrarch, and read to her that sonnet from the poet's
heart beginning:

Sweet bird, that singest on thy airy way.

"I had often read it to her in that spot--and I reminded her that
it was the last, last time for long--perhaps forever--that we should
sit in that place and read that book of enchantment together,
when--Babache, will you promise me on your sword never to breathe
what I tell you?"

I promised; lovers can not keep their own secrets, but expect others
to do it.

"When I had finished reading the sonnet, Francezka remained silent. I
looked at her, and the big, beautiful tears were dropping upon her
cheeks. Babache, can you imagine the exquisite rapturous pain of
seeing the woman you love weeping at the thought of parting from
you?"

He got up and walked about the room, and sat down, this time opposite
me.

"You understand, Babache, she is not yet quite seventeen. In another
year she will be her own mistress; but I think she regards as sacred
her father's injunction not to marry for two years after her majority.
Nay, I believe she wants those two years of freedom. All this does not
frighten me--but--her fortune will be very great, and that frightens
me. Mine is but small. Had we but succeeded in Courland! If I could
but give her glory in exchange for wealth. And--Babache--the kindness
of her eyes--those tears were for me--" he got up again and walked
about frantically, like your young lover. I saw he was not really very
miserable, but had persuaded himself that he was.

"You will not find many men balking at her fortune," said I. "And
remember: Mademoiselle Capello is in danger of sharing the usual
wretched fate of heiresses, to be sold like a slave in the market.
You, at least, love her."

"Love her--" he pranced about wildly, protesting his love. He was but
two and twenty, after all; but under this effervescence, I saw a deep
and true passion that possessed him body and soul.

Presently he calmed himself and talked seriousl