pects it to be other than a _fracas_ over a game at
_ecarte_. No one supposes that I had any other motive, or any deeper
vengeance--not even De Caylus! I have not compromised her by word or
deed. If I shoot him, I free her without a breath of scandal. If
I fall--"

His voice failed, and we were both silent for some moments

We were now past the Barrier, and speeding on rapidly towards the open
country. High white houses with jalousies closed against the sun, and
pretty maisonnettes in formal gardens, succeeded the streets and shops
of suburban Paris. Then came a long country road bordered by
poplars--by-and-by, glimpses of the Seine, and scattered farms and
villages far away--then Sevres and the leafy heights of Bellevue
overhanging the river.

We crossed the bridge, and the driver, mindful of his fare, urged on his
tired horse. Some country folks met us presently, and a wagoner with a
load of fresh hay. They all smiled and gave us "good-day" as we
passed--they going to their work in the fields, and we to our work of
bloodshed!

Shortly after this, the road began winding upwards, past the porcelain
factories and through the village of Sevres; after which, having but a
short distance of very steep road to climb, we desired the cabman to
wait, and went up on foot. Arrived at the top, where a peep of blue
daylight came streaming down upon us through a green tunnel of acacias,
we emerged all at once upon the terrace, and found ourselves first on
the field. Behind us rose a hillside of woods--before us, glassy and
glittering, as if traced upon the transparent air, lay the city of
palaces. Domes and spires, arches and columns of triumph, softened by
distance, looked as if built of the sunshine. Far away on one side
stretched the Bois de Boulogne, undulating like a sea of tender green.
Still farther away on the other, lay Pere-la-Chaise--a dark hill specked
with white; cypresses and tombs. At our feet, winding round a "lawny
islet" and through a valley luxuriant in corn-fields and meadows, flowed
the broad river, bluer than the sky.

"A fine sight, Damon!" said Dalrymple, leaning on the parapet, and
coolly lighting a cigar. "If my eyes are never to open on the day again,
I am glad they should have rested for the last time on a scene of so
much beauty! Where is the painter who could paint it? Not Claude
himself, though he should come back to life on purpose, and mix his
colors with liquid sunlight!"

"You are a queer fe