med seemed to me now all vicious and distorted, my cynicism
shallow and unjust.

"Monsieur de Lesperon," she called softly to me, noting my silence.

I turned to her. I set my hand lightly upon her arm; I let my gaze
encounter the upward glance of her eyes--blue as forget-me-nots.

"You suffer!" she murmured, with sweet compassion.

"Worse, Roxalanne! I have sown in your heart too the seed of suffering.
Oh, I am too unworthy!" I cried out; "and when you come to discover how
unworthy it will hurt you; it will sting your pride to think how kind
you were to me." She smiled incredulously, in denial of my words. "No,
child; I cannot tell you."

She sighed, and then before more could be said there was a sound at the
door, and we started away from each other. The Vicomte entered, and my
last chance of confessing, of perhaps averting much of what followed,
was lost to me.

CHAPTER VIII. THE PORTRAIT

Into the mind of every thoughtful man must come at times with bitterness
the reflection of how utterly we are at the mercy of Fate, the victims
of her every whim and caprice. We may set out with the loftiest, the
sternest resolutions to steer our lives along a well-considered course,
yet the slightest of fortuitous circumstances will suffice to force us
into a direction that we had no thought of taking.

Now, had it pleased Monsieur de Marsac to have come to Lavedan at any
reasonable hour of the day, I should have been already upon the road
to Paris, intent to own defeat and pay my wager. A night of thought,
besides strengthening my determination to follow such a course, had
brought the reflection that I might thereafter return to Roxalanne, a
poor man, it is true, but one at least whose intentions might not be
misconstrued.

And so, when at last I sank into sleep, my mind was happier than it had
been for many days. Of Roxalanne's love I was assured, and it seemed
that I might win her, after all, once I removed the barrier of shame
that now deterred me. It may be that those thoughts kept me awake
until a late hour, and that to this I owe it that when on the morrow I
awakened the morning was well advanced. The sun was flooding my chamber,
and at my bedside stood Anatole.

"What's o'clock?" I inquired, sitting bolt upright.

"Past ten," said he, with stern disapproval.

"And you have let me sleep?" I cried.

"We do little else at Lavedan even when we are awake," he grumbled.
"There was no reason why monsieur s