of color rising upon either cheek.

"You cannot be angry," I continued gravely, after pausing vainly for a
reply. "Surely I have said no more than you already knew, and I spoke
merely in answer to your questioning."

"No, I am not angry. But it is not a pleasant reflection underlying
the things mentioned, and I cannot assert your judgment of the
Chevalier false. Still I would press you further. Is this your only
reason for desiring me to remain?"

"You wish me to answer frankly?"

"Otherwise I should not ask."

I felt the quick flush mount even to my hair, yet gripped my breath,
making effort to respond boldly.

"I had other reason. To deny it would be merely uttering a lie to no
purpose. Madame de Noyan, we are not strangers--we could never be
after that night when we parted beneath the olives of Monsieur
Beaujen's garden. You are wife to a chevalier of France; I, a homeless
adventurer. Yet I have no higher ambition than to prove of service to
you. Whatever I have accomplished has been entirely for your sake, not
for his. Now we are together, the daily opportunity to serve you is
mine; here I can work for you, perchance die for you, should such
sacrifice promise you happiness. But if you decide to go back yonder,
directly into danger as desperate as any confronting us to the
northward, then I must determine for myself where I can serve you best.
Knowing my heart as you must, you can easily judge whether I would
plunge deeper into the wilderness with your husband, or return to New
Orleans with you. There is a sentence in the Bible about the
impossibility of serving two masters, hence I trust I may not be
compelled to choose between, until the hour when you are both safe."

She listened silently, and I almost feared I had ventured upon too
plain speaking. Yet now, as she turned again toward me, her eyes were
moist with tears.

"You are a strange man, Geoffrey Benteen," she said gently, and, I know
not how, yet both her hands found way to mine. "I scarcely comprehend
your nature, or gauge your purposes--you are so unlike all others I
have known. Yet this I am assured; you are of honest heart, and I
trust you wholly."

"You will not return to the town?"

"I abide with you, and with my husband." Her voice faltered to that
last word, yet she spoke it bravely.

"It will be better so," I assented. "Better for us all."

We slept late, undisturbed, in secure retreat among the trees, the vast
rive