her
yourself."

"If you die," murmured Schmidt, "he shall follow you. Do not speak,
Rene."

He met Margaret on the porch. "What is it?" she cried, as he went by her
with his burden. "What is the matter?"

"A duel. He is wounded. Call your mother." Not waiting to say more, he
went carefully up-stairs, and with Chovet's help Rene was soon in his
bed. It was quietly done, Mrs. Swanwick, distressed, but simply obeying
directions, asked no questions and Margaret, below-stairs, outwardly
calm, her Quaker training serving her well, was bidding Nanny to cease
crying and to get what was needed.

Once in bed, Rene said only, "My mother--tell her, at once." She had
heard at last the quick haste of unwonted stir and met Schmidt at her
chamber door.

"May I come in?" he asked.

"Certainly, Monsieur. Something has happened to Rene. Is he dead?"

"No; but, he is hurt--wounded."

"Then tell me the worst at once. I am not of those to whom you must
break ill news gently. Sit down." He obeyed her.

"Rene has had a duel. He is badly wounded in the lung. You cannot see
him now. The doctor insists on quiet."

"And who will stop me?" she said.

"I, Madame," and he stood between her and the door. "Just now you can
only do him harm. I beg of you to wait--oh, patiently--for days,
perhaps. If he is worse, you shall know it at once."

For a moment she hesitated. "I will do as you say. Who was the man?"

"Carteaux, Madame."

"Carteaux here! _Mon Dieu!_ Does he live?"

"Yes. He was not hurt."

"And men say there is a God! Christ help me; what is it I have said? How
came he here, this man?"

He told her the whole story, she listening with moveless, pale, ascetic
face. Then she rose: "I am sorry I did not know of this beforehand. I
should have prayed for my son that he might kill him. I thank you,
Monsieur. I believe you love my Rene."

"As if he were my son, Madame."

Days went by, darkened with despair or brightened with faint hope. Alas!
who has not known them? The days grew to weeks. There were no longer
guests, only anxious inquirers and a pale, drooping young woman and two
mothers variously troubled.

But if here there were watching friendship and love and service and a
man to die to-day or to-morrow to live, in the darkened room were
spirits twain ever whispering love or hate. Outside of the house where
De Courval lay, the Jacobin clubs rejoiced and feasted Carteaux, who
burned De Courval's note and held his tongue,