ection of Prince Andras's fiancee.

After a little more desultory conversation, he strolled away from
Varhely, and gradually approached Marsa, who, her chin resting on her
hand, and her eyes lowered, seemed absorbed in contemplation of the
ceaseless flow of the water.

Greatly moved, pulling his moustache, and glancing with a sort of
uneasiness at Prince Andras, who was promenading on the bank with the
Baroness, Michel Menko paused before addressing Marsa, who had
not perceived his approach, and who was evidently far away in some
day-dream.

Gently, hesitatingly, and in a low voice, he at last spoke her name:

"Marsa!"

The Tzigana started as if moved by an electric shock, and, turning
quickly, met the supplicating eyes of the young man.

"Marsa!" repeated Michel, in a humble tone of entreaty.

"What do you wish of me?" she said. "Why do you speak to me? You must
have seen what care I have taken to avoid you."

"It is that which has wounded me to the quick. You are driving me mad.
If you only knew what I am suffering!"

He spoke almost in a whisper, and very rapidly, as if he felt that
seconds were worth centuries.

She answered him in a cutting, pitiless tone, harsher even than the
implacable look in her dark eyes. "You suffer? Is fate so just as that?
You suffer?"

Her tone and expression made Michel Menko tremble as if each syllable of
these few words was a blow in the face.

"Marsa!" he exclaimed, imploringly. "Marsa!"

"My name is Marsa Laszlo; and, in a few days, I shall be Princess
Zilah," responded the young girl, passing haughtily by him, "and I think
you will hardly force me to make you remember it."

She uttered these words so resolutely, haughtily, almost disdainfully,
and accompanied them with such a flash from her beautiful eyes that
Menko instinctively bowed his head, murmuring:

"Forgive me!"

But he drove his nails into the palm of his clenched hand as he saw her
leave that part of the boat, and retire as far from him as she could,
as if his presence were an insult to her. Tears of rage started into
the young man's eyes as he watched her graceful figure resume its former
posture of dreamy absorption.

CHAPTER XI. A RIVER FETE

Close alongside of the Prince's boat, waiting also for the opening of
the lock, was one of those great barges which carry wood or charcoal up
and down the Seine.

A whole family often lives on board these big, heavy boats. The smoke of
the kitchen f