He threw at me a glance of inquiry.

“No,” said I, “do not bury your honors in a wallet.”

He bowed stiffly, and, as he looked down at the medal, went away, spurs clattering.

Therese came in presently, her face full of vivacity and color.

“M’sieur le Capitaine,” said she, “we are going for a little ride, the marquis and I. Will you come with us?  You shall have the best horse in the stable.”

“And you my best thanks for the honor,” I said.

Our horses came up presently, and we all made off at a quick gallop.  The forest avenues were now aglow and filled with hazy sunlight as with a flood, through which yellow leaves were slowly sinking.  Our horses went to their fetlocks in a golden drift.  The marquis rode on at a rapid pace, but soon Therese pulled rein, I keeping abreast of her.

In a moment our horses were walking quietly.

“You have news for me, ma’m’selle?” I remarked.

“Indeed, I have much news,” said she, as always, in French.  “I was afraid you were not coming in time, m’sieur.”

She took a dainty letter from her bosom, passing it to me.

My old passion flashed up as I took the perfumed sheets.  I felt my heart quicken, my face burn with it.  I was to have good news at last of those I loved better than my life, those I had not forgotten a moment in all the peril of war.

I saw the handwriting of Louison and then a vision of her—­the large eyes, the supple, splendid figure, the queenly bearing.  It read;—­

“MY DEAR THERESE:  At last they promise to return us to you on the 12th of October.  You are to send two men for us—­not more—­to the head of Eagle Island, off Ste. Roche, in the St. Lawrence, with canoes, at ten o’clock in the evening of that day.  They will find a lantern hanging on a tree at the place we are to meet them.  We may be delayed a little, but they are to wait for us there.  And, as you love me, see that one is my brave captain—­I do not care about the other who comes.  First of all I wish to see my emperor, my love, the tall, handsome, and gallant youngster who has won me.  What a finish for this odd romance if he only comes!  And then I do wish to see you, the count, and the others.  I read your note with such a pleasure!  You are sure that he loves me?  And that he does not know that I love him?  I do not wish him to know, to suspect, until he has asked me to be his queen—­until he has a right to know.  Once he has my secret.  Love is robbed of his best treasure.  Mon Dieu!  I wish to tell him myself, sometime, if he ever has the courage to take command of me.  I warn you, Therese, if I think he knows—­when I see him—­I shall be cruel to him; I shall make him hate me.  So you see I will not be cheated of my wooing, and I know you would not endanger my life’s happiness.  I have written a little song—­for him.  Well, some day I shall sing it to him, and will he not be glad to know I could do it?  Here are the first lines to give you the idea:—­