y of Francezka. I had
no doubt, although he preserved a manly modesty about it, that
Francezka, impetuous like himself, wilful, proud, but loving, had
given him much greater encouragement than a tear or two at his reading
a sonnet of Petrarch's to her. But with that strain of sober sense,
and that mastery of the will which I had so often noticed in
Francezka's wildest dreams, and which I always attributed to her
Scotch blood, she meant not to throw away her liberty rashly. She
might lap her soul in Elysium, and dream dreams, and entertain love
with magnificence, but she always knew where her footing was, and what
she actually did would not be waited on by repentance.

Then I made inquiry about Regnard Cheverny.

"My brother, I think, has made up his mind to take service with the
Austrians under Prince Eugene, and I believe he will in time become an
Austrian. He is still at Castle Haret, and Jacques Haret--ah, the
scoundrel! I can scarcely tell you without swearing of his latest
villainy. Lisa--poor old Peter's niece--"

"Has he carried off the old man's one ewe lamb?" I cried.

"Yes--that poor, submissive girl."

Of all the villainies I had ever known up to that time, this of
Jacques Haret seemed to me the worst. I had seen the seamy side of
human nature often--too often. I had seen the rapine of camps, the
iniquities of a great city; but this action of Jacques Haret's shone
hideous alongside all I had ever known.

Gaston Cheverny continued, his wrath and disgust speaking in his face
and voice.

"I wondered why Jacques Haret should remain in Brabant. I allowed him
to stay at my house--may God forgive me! I thought he could not find
much evil to his hand; but it seems, like Satan's darling, as he is,
he made evil. For the girl was perfectly correct until he met her, and
there was not the slightest suspicion of any wrong-doing until, one
morning, less than a fortnight ago, when old Peter arose, he found she
had gone. He ran at once to my house, having had, I fancy, some latent
fear of Jacques Haret. I was wakened from sleep in the wintry dawn by
the sound of the old man's crying and moaning at my door. He had gone
to Jacques Haret's room and found he had decamped.

"I opened the door, and there stood the old man--he would have fallen
but that I held him up. He could utter but one name, the tears
meanwhile drenching his poor, wrinkled face:

"'Lisa! Lisa! My little Lisa!'

"Some intuition came to me. I said: