d.

"But," she said, with surprise not free from alarm, "this scar seems to
me like a fresh one."

"Ah!" Martin explained, with a, little embarrassment; "it reopened
lately. But I had thought no more about it. Let us forget it,
Bertrande; I should not like a recollection which might make you think
yourself less dear to me than you once were."

And he drew her upon his knee. She repelled him gently.

"Send the child to bed," said Martin. "Tomorrow shall be for him;
to-night you have the first place, Bertrande, you only."

The boy kissed his father and went.

Bertrande came and knelt beside her husband, regarding him attentively
with an uneasy smile, which did not appear to please him by any means.

"What is the matter?" said he. "Why do you examine me thus?"

"I do not know--forgive me, oh! forgive me! . . . But the happiness
of seeing you was so great and unexpected, it is all like a dream. I
must try to become accustomed to it; give me some time to collect myself;
let me spend this night in prayer. I ought to offer my joy and my
thanksgiving to Almighty God--"

"Not so," interrupted her husband, passing his arms round her neck and
stroking her beautiful hair. "No; 'tis to me that your first thoughts
are due. After so much weariness, my rest is in again beholding you, and
my happiness after so many trials will be found in your love. That hope
has supported me throughout, and I long to be assured that it is no
illusion." So saying, he endeavoured to raise her.

"Oh," she murmured, "I pray you leave me."

"What!" he exclaimed angrily. "Bertrande, is this your love? Is it thus
you keep faith with me? You will make me doubt the evidence of your
friends; you will make me think that indifference, or even another
love----"

"You insult me," said Bertrande, rising to her feet.

He caught her in his arms. "No, no; I think nothing which could wound
you, my queen, and I believe your fidelity, even as before, you know, on
that first journey, when you wrote me these loving letters which I have
treasured ever since. Here they are." And he drew forth some papers, on
which Bertrande recognised her own handwriting. "Yes," he continued, "I
have read and--re-read them.... See, you spoke then of your love and the
sorrows of absence. But why all this trouble and terror? You tremble,
just as you did when I first received you from your father's hands....
It was here, in this very room.... You begged me