with one or the other of these women."

But Clio knew Victor no more. On the margins he drew faces or began
rondeaux which came to no end.

"Laughter has a pleasant sound in my ears, Paul," said Victor; "and I
have not heard you laugh in some time."

"Perhaps the thought has not occurred to me," replied the Chevalier,
glancing at the entrance to the palisade. Madame had only that moment
passed through, having left the vicomte. "I have lost the trick of
laughing. No thought of mine is spontaneous. With a carpenter's ell I
mark out each thought; it is all edges and angles."

"Something must be done, then, to make you laugh. Madame and
mademoiselle have promised to take a canoe trip back into the hills
this afternoon. Come with us."

"They suggested . . . ?" the Chevalier stammered.

"No. But haven't you the right? At least you know madame."

"Madame?"

"Madame, always madame. Here formalities would only be ridiculous.
You will go with us for safety's sake, if for nothing more."

"I will go . . . with that understanding. Ah, lad, if only I knew what
you know!"

"We should still be where we are," evasively. The poet had a plan in
regard to madame and the Chevalier. It twisted his brave heart, yet he
clung to it.

Caprice is an exquisite trait in a woman; a woman who has it--and what
woman has not?--is all the seasons of the year compressed into an
hour--the mildness of spring, the warmth of summer, the glory of
autumn, and the chill of winter. And when madame saw the Chevalier
that afternoon, she put a foot into the canoe, and immediately withdrew
it.

"What is it?" asked Victor.

"Is Monsieur le Chevalier going?"

"Yes." Victor waited. "Why?" he said finally.

"Nothing, nothing." Madame took her place in the canoe.

"It is necessary for our general safety, Madame, that the Chevalier
goes with us."

"There is danger, then?"

"There will he none," emphatically.

"Let us be off," was madame's rejoinder.

The Chevalier stepped in and took the paddle, while Victor pushed the
canoe into the water. He and Anne followed presently. Madame sat in
the bow, her back to the Chevalier, her hands resting lightly on the
sides. The rings which the Chevalier had seen on those beautiful hands
while in Quebec were gone, even to the wedding ring. They were
doubtless bedecking the pudgy digits of one Corn Planter's wife, far
away in the Seneca country. The canoe quivered as the Chevalier's
stron