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 resourceful as the father. You are, Monsieur, and yet you are different."

"Yes," I said.

"And I am glad, glad," said Mademoiselle.

"And I am sorry you are glad," I said.

"You are sorry?"

"Perhaps, Mademoiselle," I replied with a tinge of bitterness I could not suppress, "if I had seen more of the world, if my clothes were in better taste, and my manners less abrupt—you would feel differently, I wonder. But let us be silent, for we are almost there."

As we drew near, making our way through damp thickets, a sense of uneasiness came over me. Somehow I feared we might be too late, though I knew that this was hardly possible. I feared, and yet I knew well enough it was written somewhere that we should meet once more. With six men after him he would not have ridden straight to the place. We should meet, and it would be different from our other meetings. I wished that it was light enough to see his face.

At a turn of the path I reined up and listened. It was very still. Already the light had gone out of the sky, and little was left