tion of all, a woman's smiles,--that
led me to take the wrong turn, as you call it. There, you have my
confession!--and I would put my sword through any man but you, Pierre,
who dared ask me to give such an account of myself. I am ashamed of it
all, Pierre Philibert!"

"Thanks, Le Gardeur, for your confidence. I hope you will outride this
storm!" He held out his hand, nervous and sinewy as that of Mars. Le
Gardeur seized it, and pressed it hard in his. "Don't you think it is
still able to rescue a friend from peril?" added Philibert smiling.

Le Gardeur caught his meaning, and gave him a look of unutterable
gratitude. "Besides this hand of mine, are there not the gentler hands
of Amelie to intercede for you with your better self?" said Philibert.

"My dear sister!" interjected Le Gardeur. "I am a coward when I think of
her, and I shame to come into her pure presence."

"Take courage, Le Gardeur! There is hope where there is shame of our
faults. Be equally frank with your sister as with me, and she will win
you, in spite of yourself, from the enchantments of Bigot, Cadet, and
the still more potent smiles you speak of that led you to take the wrong
turn in life."

"I doubt it is too late, Pierre! although I know that, were every other
friend in the world to forsake me, Amelie would not! She would not even
reproach me, except by excess of affection."

Philibert looked on his friend admiringly, at this panegyric of the
woman he loved. Le Gardeur was in feature so like his sister that
Philibert at the moment caught the very face of Amelie, as it were,
looking at him through the face of her brother. "You will not resist her
pleadings, Le Gardeur,"--Philibert thought it an impossible thing. "No
guardian angel ever clung to the skirts of a sinner as Amelie will cling
to you," said he; "therefore I have every hope of my dear friend Le
Gardeur Repentigny."

The two riders emerged from the forest, and drew up for a minute in
front of the hostelry of the Crown of France, to water their horses at
the long trough before the door and inform Dame Bedard, who ran out to
greet them, that Master Pothier was following with his ambling nag at a
gentle pace, as befitted the gravity of his profession.

"Oh! Master Pothier never fails to find his way to the Crown of France;
but won't your Honors take a cup of wine? The day is hot and the road
dusty. 'A dry rider makes a wet nag,'" added the Dame, with a smile, as
she repeated an old s