She had drawn her glove quickly, and held out her hand, white and beautiful, a dainty finger in a gorget of gems.  That little cold, trembling hand seemed to lay hold of my heart and pull me to her.  As my lips touched the palm I felt its mighty magic.  Dear girl!  I wonder if she planned that trial for me.

“We must—­ride—­faster.  You—­you—­are cold,” I stammered.

She held her hand so that the sunlight flashed in the jewels, and looked down upon it proudly.

“Do you think it beautiful?” she asked.

“Yes, and wonderful,” I said.  “But, mark me, it is all a sacred trust—­the beauty you have.”

“Sacred?”

“More sacred than the power of kings,” I said.

“Preacher!” said she, with a smile.  “You should give yourself to the church.”

“I can do better with the sword of steel,” I said.

“But do not be sad.  Cheer up, dear fellow!” she went on, patting my elbow with a pretty mockery.  “We women are not—­not so bad.  When I find the man I love—­”

Her voice faltered as she began fussing with her stirrup.

I turned with a look of inquiry, changing quickly to one of admiration.

“I shall make him love me, if I can,” she went on soberly.

“And if he does?” I queried, my blood quickening as our eyes met.

“Dieu!  I would do anything for him,” said she.

I turned away, looking off at the brown fields.  Ah, then, for a breath, my heart begged my will for utterance.  The first word passed my lips when there came a sound of galloping hoofs and Theresa and the marquis.

“Come, dreamers,” said the former, as they pulled up beside us.  “A cold dinner is the worst enemy of happiness.”

“And he is the worst robber that shortens the hour of love,” said the marquis, smiling.

We turned, following them at a swift gallop.  They had helped me out of that mire of ecstasy, and now I was glad, for, on my soul, I believed the fair girl had found one more to her liking, and was only playing for my scalp.  And at last I had begun to know my own heart, or thought I had.

D’ri came over that evening with a letter from General Brown.  He desired me to report for duty next day at two.

“War—­it is forever war,” said Therese, when I told her at dinner.  “There is to be a coaching-party to-morrow, and we shall miss you, captain.”

“Can you not soon return?” said the baroness.

“I fear not,” was my answer.  “It is to be a long campaign.”

“Oh, the war!  When will it ever end?” said Louise, sighing.

“When we are all dead,” said Louison.

“Of loneliness?” said the old count, with a smile.

“No; of old age,” said Louison, quickly.

“When the army goes into Canada it will go into trouble,” said the Comte de Chaumont, speaking in French.  “We shall have to get you out of captivity, captain.”