She made a step toward him as if she would take the book away, and over it their eyes met and were held.  In that moment it may have come to them both who she was, who so loved the knight without fear and without reproach—­the daughter of art Irish adventurer of ill repute—­for their faces began suddenly to flush with red, and after an instant the girl turned away.

“It is of no consequence,” said she.  “You may keep the book if you care to.”

And Ste. Marie said, very gently:  “Thank you, Mademoiselle.  I will keep it for a little while.”

So she went out of the room and left him alone.

This was at noon on the sixth day, and, after he had swallowed hastily the lunch which had been set before him, Ste. Marie fell upon the books like a child upon a new box of sweets.  Like the child again, it was difficult for him to choose among them.  He opened one and then another, gloating over them all, but in the end he chose the Bayard, and for hours lost himself among the high deeds of the Preux Chevalier and his faithful friends—­among whom, by the way, there was a Ste. Marie who died nobly for France.  It was late afternoon when at last he laid the book down with a sigh and settled himself more comfortably among the pillows.

The sun was not in the room at that hour, but from where he lay he could see it on the tree-tops, gold upon green.  Outside his south window the leaves of a chestnut which stood there quivered and rustled gently under a soft breeze.  Delectable odors floated in to Ste. Marie’s nostrils, and he thought how very pleasant it would be if he were lying on the turf under the trees instead of bedridden in this upper chamber, which he had come to hate with a bitter hatred.

He began to wonder if it would be possible to drag himself across the floor to that south window, and so to lie down for a while with his head in the tiny balcony beyond, his eyes turned to the blue sky.  Astir with the new thought, he sat up in bed and carefully swung his feet out till they hung to the floor.  The wound in the left leg smarted and burned, but not too severely, and with slow pains Ste. Marie stood up.  He almost cried out when he discovered that it could be done quite easily.  He essayed to walk, and he was a little weak, but by no means helpless.  He found that it gave him pain to raise his left leg in the ordinary action of walking or to bend that knee, but he could get about well enough by dragging the injured member beside him, for when it was straight it supported him without protest.