Upon emerging from the wood the road wound up a steep hill-side, so the horses were stopped, to rest a few minutes before beginning the ascent, and de Sigognac, profiting by the opportunity thus afforded him, said to Isabelle, “Dear heart, will you get down and walk a little way with me?  You will find it a pleasant change and rest after sitting still in the chariot so long.  The road is smooth and dry, and the sunshine deliciously warm—­do come!”

Isabelle joyfully acceded to this request, and putting her hand into the one extended to help her, jumped lightly down.  It was a welcome means of according an innocent tete-a-tete to her devoted lover, and both felt as if they were treading on air, they were so happy to find themselves alone together, as, arm in arm, they walked briskly forward, until they were out of sight of their companions.  Then they paused to look long and lovingly into each other’s eyes, and de Sigognac began again to pour out to Isabelle “the old, old story,” that she was never weary of hearing, but found more heavenly sweet at every telling.  They were like the first pair of mortal lovers in Paradise, entirely sufficient to and happy in each other.  Yet even then Isabelle gently checked the passionate utterances of her faithful suitor, and strove to moderate his rapturous transports, though their very fervour made her heart rejoice, and brought a bright flush to her cheeks and a happy light to her eyes that rendered her more adorably beautiful than ever.

“Whatever you may do or say, my darling,” he answered, with a sweet, tender smile, “you will never be able to tire out my constancy.  If need be, I will wait for you until all your scruples shall have vanished of themselves—­though it be not till these beautiful, soft brown tresses, with their exquisite tinge of gold where the sun shines on them, shall have turned to silver.”

“Oh!” cried Isabelle, “I shall be so old and so ugly then that even your sublime courage will be daunted, and I fear that in rewarding your perseverance and fidelity by the gift of myself I should only be punishing my devoted knight and brave champion.”

“You will never be ugly, my beloved Isabelle, if you live to be a hundred,” he replied, with an adoring glance, “for yours is not the mere physical beauty, that fades away and vanishes—­it is the beauty of the soul, which is immortal.”

“All the same you would be badly off,” rejoined Isabelle, “if I were to take you at your word, and promise to be yours when I was old and gray.  But enough of this jesting,” she continued gravely, “let us be serious!  You know my resolution, de Sigognac, so try to content yourself with being the object of the deepest, truest, most devoted love that was ever yet bestowed on mortal man since hearts began to beat in this strange world of ours.”

“Such a charming avowal ought to satisfy me, I admit, but it does not!  My love for you is infinite—­it can brook no bounds—­it is ever increasing—­rising higher and higher, despite your heavenly voice, that bids it keep within the limits you have fixed for it.”