“But what would you do?”

“I do not know.  I suppose I can do nothing because—­alas! because my father has bought my obedience with a million francs.  Do you not see that I am in bondage?”

“Be patient; the life of a rich demoiselle is not barren of opportunity.”

“To be gay—­oh! one might as well be a peacock; to say pretty things, one might better be a well-trained parrot; to grace the court or the salon, I had as soon be a statue in the corner—­it has more comfort, more security; to be admired, to hear fine compliments—­well, you know that is the part of a pet poodle.  I say, captain, to be happy one must be free to do.”

I looked into her big eyes, that were full of their new discovery.

“I should like to be among the wounded soldiers,” said she, her face brightening.  “It did make me very happy to sit by your bedside and do for you.”

There was a very tender look in her eyes then.

She started to rise.  A brier, stirring in the breeze, had fallen across her hair.  She let me loose the thorns, and, doing so, I kissed her forehead—­I could not help it.

“M’sieur!” she exclaimed in a whisper.  Then she turned quickly away and stood tearing a leaf in her fingers.

“Forgive me!” I pleaded, for I saw she was crying.  “It was the impulse of a moment.  Pray forgive me!”

She stood motionless and made no answer, I never felt such a stir in me, for I had a fear, a terrible fear, that I had lost what I might never have again.

“It was honorable admiration,” I continued, rising to my full height beside her.  “Tell me, ma’m’selle, have I hurt you?”

“No,” said she, in a voice that trembled.  “I am thinking—­I am thinking of somebody else.”

The words, spoken so slowly, so sweetly, seemed, nevertheless, to fly at me.  “Of somebody else!” Whom could she mean?  Had her sister told her?  Did she know of my meeting with Louison?  I was about to confess how deeply, how tenderly, I loved her.  I had spoken the first word when this thought flashed upon me, and I halted.  I could not go on.

“Ma’m’selle,” I said, “I—­I—­if it is I of whom you are thinking, give me only your pity, and I can be content.  Sometime, perhaps, I may deserve more.  If I can be of any service to you, send for me—­command me.  You shall see I am not ungrateful.  Ah, ma’m’selle,” I continued, as I stood to my full height, and felt a mighty uplift in my heart that seemed to toss the words out of me, “I have a strong arm and a good sword, and the love of honor and fair women.”

She wiped her eyes, and turned and looked up at me.  I was no longer a sick soldier.

“It is like a beautiful story,” she said thoughtfully; “and you—­you are like a knight of old.  We must go home.  It is long past luncheon hour.  We must hurry.”

She gave me her arm up the hill, and we walked without speaking.