garden the fog, made luminous by the torches of
the insurgents, surrounded the house with a circle of bright, ruddy
vapor.

Speed came slowly across the room with me.

"Do they mean to shoot us?" he asked, bluntly.

"Messieurs," said the Countess, with a faint smile, "your whispers
are no compliment to my race. Pray honor me by plain speaking. Are we
to die?"

We stood absolutely speechless before her.

"Ah, Monsieur Scarlett," she said, gravely, "do you also fail me ...
at the end?... You, too--even you?... Must I tell you that we of
Trecourt fear nothing in this world?"

She made a little gesture, exquisitely imperious.

I stepped toward her; she waited for me to seat myself beside her.

"Are we to die?" she asked.

"Yes, madame."

"Thank you," she said, softly.

I looked up. My head was swimming so that I could scarcely see her,
scarcely perceive the deep, steady tenderness in her clear eyes.

"Do you not understand?" she asked. "You are my friend. I wished to
know my fate from you."

"Madame," I said, hoarsely, "how can you call me friend when you
know to what I have brought you?"

"You have brought me to know myself," she said, simply. "Why should
I not be grateful? Why do you look at me so sadly, Monsieur Scarlett?
Truly, you must know that my life has been long enough to prove its
uselessness."

"It is not true!" I cried, stung by remorse for all I had said.
"Such women as you are the hope of France! Such women as you are the
hope of the world! Ah, that you should consider the bitterness and
folly of such a man as I am--that you should consider and listen to
the sorry wisdom of a homeless mountebank--a wandering fool--a
preacher of empty platitudes, who has brought you to this with his
cursed meddling!"

"You taught me truth," she said, calmly; "you make the last days of
my life the only ones worth living. I said to you but an hour
since--when I was angry--that we were unfitted to comprehend each
other. It is not true. We are fitted for that. I had rather die with
you than live without the friendship which I believe--which I know--is
mine. Monsieur Scarlett, it is not love. If it were, I could not say
this to you--even in death's presence. It is something better;
something untroubled, confident, serene.... You see it is not love....
And perhaps it has no name.... For I have never before known such
happiness, such peace, as I know now, here with you, talking of our
death. If we could live,.