n was so great that he could not conceal it, and he left the
room.

He was overwhelmed by the grandeur of soul exhibited by this peasant,
who, after saving the life of his successful rival at the Croix d'Arcy,
had wrested Baron d'Escorval from the hands of his executioners, and
who had never allowed a complaint nor a reproach to escape his lips, and
whose protection over the woman he adored extended even from beyond the
grave.

In comparison with this obscure hero, Maurice felt himself
insignificant, mediocre, unworthy.

Good God! what if this comparison should arise in Marie-Anne's mind as
well? How could he compete with the memory of such nobility of soul and
heroic self-sacrifice?

Chanlouineau was mistaken; one, may, perhaps, be jealous of the dead!

But Maurice took good care to conceal this poignant anxiety and these
sorrowful thoughts, and during the days that followed, he presented
himself in Marie-Anne's room with a calm, even cheerful face.

For she, unfortunately, was not restored to health. She had recovered
the full possession of her mental faculties, but her strength had not
yet returned. She was still unable to sit up; and Maurice was forced to
relinquish all thought of quitting Saliente, though he felt the earth
burn beneath his feet.

This persistent weakness began to astonish the old nurse. Her faith in
herbs, gathered by the light of the moon, was considerably shaken.

Honest Bavois was the first to suggest the idea of consulting a
physician whom he had found in this land of savages.

Yes; he had found a really skilful physician in the neighborhood, a
man of superior ability. Attached at one time to the beautiful court
of Prince Eugene, he had been obliged to flee from Milan, and had taken
refuge in this secluded spot.

This physician was summoned, and promptly made his appearance. He was
one of those men whose age it is impossible to determine. His past,
whatever it might have been, had wrought deep furrows on his brow, and
his glance was as keen and piercing as his lancet.

After visiting the sick-room, he drew Maurice aside.

"Is this young lady really your wife, Monsieur--Dubois?"

He hesitated so strangely over this name, Dubois, that Maurice felt his
face crimson to the roots of his hair.

"I do not understand your question," he retorted, angrily.

"I beg your pardon, of course, but you seem very young for a married
man, and your hands are too soft to belong to a farmer. And wh