moss-grown stone.

A lovely landscape spread out below me. It was years since I had seen
it. The rivers flowing through a champagne country to the sea. The
white houses and thatched roofs of the villages: the red-brick streets
of Benevent. How well I knew it all! It recalled memories of the past.
The thought flashed upon me in an instant.

The last time I was here was with Marc. We desired again to take our
walk--to see our old haunts of bird's-nesting and berry-gathering. It
was the day before he married Cecile.

I rose, wiped the perspiration from my brow, and continued my ascent. I
reached the highest level of the coach road, where, for half a league,
it takes its course through a narrow defile between two precipitous
hills, whose rocky sides no time can change. I looked back.

The open carriage containing Cecile and her husband I could see on the
road, far in the distance. They were driving at a good pace. "They
will pass me in the defile," I said, and hurried on. Why, I knew not.
Presently the sound of wheels on the soft, sandy road was plain enough
to the ear.

Nearer and nearer came the rumble. There were some juniper bushes of
giant growth a little further on the road. It was a question which
would reach them first, the chaise or I.

I had the start; but horses are quicker on their legs than men.

As it turned out, we reached them almost, together. I was slightly in
advance, however.

The road here was very narrow. Two vehicles could hardly pass. I took
to the rough grass. Pushing aside the boughs of a bush that was
directly in my path, and intending to take my stand before it, and wave
my hat as the carriage passed, I came suddenly upon--Marc!

It was he!

He stood with a wild fire of jealousy in his eyes, his hat on the grass
beside him; his arm raised, a pistol in his hand, his finger on the
trigger!

It was a supreme moment.

My courage did not desert me. I was calm.

The carriage was passing.

I made a dash at his arm, to strike the weapon from his hand. I
stumbled and fell at his feet. Instantly I looked up. I wished to
shout, but my tongue refused its office. It was glued, parched, to the
roof of my mouth. There would be murder! Cecile would be killed--and
by Marc! My eyes were riveted on the trigger of his pistol! He pulled
it! There was a tiny flash--a tiny puff! No more! The weapon had
missed fire. We were concealed by the bushes. The carriage drove by