t swelled.

"You have asked me who I am," she cried. "Then, listen: I am . . . ."

His face was without eagerness. It was firm.

"I am . . ." she began again.

"The woman I love, the woman who shall some day be my wife."

"Must I call you a coward, Monsieur?" blazing.

"I held you in my arms the other night; you will recollect that I had
the courage to release you."

Madame saw that she had lost the encounter, for the simple reason that
the right was all on his side, the wrong and injustice on hers.
Instinctively she felt that if she told him all he in his gathering
coolness would accept it as an artifice, an untruth. Her handkerchief,
which she had nervously rolled into a ball, fell to the walk. He
picked it up, but to the outstretched hand he shook his head.

"That is mine, Monsieur; give it to me."

"I will give it back some day," he replied, thrusting the bit of
cambric into his blouse.

"Now, Monsieur; at once!" she commanded.

"There was a time when I obeyed you in all things. This handkerchief
will do in place of that single love-letter you had the indiscretion to
write. Do you remember that line, 'I kiss your handsome grey eyes a
thousand times?' That was a contract, a written agreement, and, on my
word of honor, had I it now . . ."

"Monsieur du Cevennes," she said, "I will this day write an answer to
your annoying proposal. I trust that you will be gentleman enough to
accept it as final. I am exceedingly angry at this moment, and my
words do justice neither to you nor to me. Yes, I had a purpose, a
woman's purpose; and, to be truthful, I have grown to regret it."

"Your purpose, Madame, is nothing; mine is everything." He bowed and
departed, the heron feather in his hat showing boldly.

It was almost a complete victory, for he had taken with him her woman's
prerogative, the final word. He strode resolutely along, never once
turning his head . . . not having the courage. But, had he turned,
certain it is that he must have stopped.

For madame had fallen back upon that one prerogative which man shall
never take from woman . . . tears!

Look back, Monsieur, while there is yet time.

CHAPTER XXVI

BROTHER JACQUES TELLS THE STORY OP HIAWATHA

At the noon meal madame's chair at the table was vacant, and Anne, who
had left madame outside the convent gate and had not seen her since,
went up to the room to ascertain the cause of the absence. She found
the truant asleep, the l