ce and beady eyes. When the party broke up, the vicomte emerged from
his hiding place, wearing a smile which boded no good to whatever plot
or plan D'Herouville had conceived. And that same night he approached
each of D'Herouville's confederates and spoke. What passed only they
themselves knew; but when the vicomte left them they were irrevocably
his.

"Eye of the bull!" murmured Corporal Fremin, "but this vicomte is much
of a man. As for the Chevalier, what the devil! his fingers have been
sunken into my throat."

A mile from the mission, toward the north, of the lake, stood a hut of
Indian construction. It had been erected long before the mission. It
served as a half-way to the savages after days of hunting in the
northern confines of the country of the Onondagas. Here the savages
would rest of a night before carrying the game to the village in the
hills. It was well hidden from the eyes, thick foliage and vines
obscuring it from the view of those at the mission. But there was a
well worn path leading to it. It was here that tragedy entered into
the comedy of these various lives.

Indian summer. The leaves rustled and sighed upon the damp earth. The
cattails waved their brown tassels. Wild ducks passed in dark flocks.
A stag sent a challenge across the waters. The lord-like pine looked
lordlier than ever among the dismantled oak and maple. The brown nuts
pattered softly to the ground, and the chatter of the squirrel was
heard. The Chevalier stood at the door of the hunting hut, and all the
varying glories of the dying year stirred the latent poetry in his
soul. In his hand he held a slip of paper which he read and reread.
There was a mixture of joy and puzzlement in his eyes. Diane. It had
a pleasant sound; what had she to say that necessitated this odd
trysting place? He glanced at the writing again. Evidently she had
written it in a hurry. What, indeed, had she to say? They had scarce
exchanged a word since the day in the hills when he told her that she
was not honest.

A leaf drifted lazily down from the overhanging oak, and another and
still another; and he listened. There was in the air the ghostly
perfume of summer; and he breathed. He was still young. Sorrow had
aged his thought, not his blood; and he loved this woman with his whole
being, dishonest though she might be. He carried the note to his lips.
She would be here at four. What she had to tell him must be told here,
not at