He winced at that, and drew himself up so sharply that she thought for a moment that he was about to turn on his heel and walk away.  Then very quietly he spoke.

“You will not understand, and yet you constrain me to speak.  Mademoiselle, I am without shame in this matter.  It is true that I fought in the cause of a woman, perhaps it would be more true if I said of a child—­one who has given me no more than her camaraderie, her confidence, her friendship, so innocent and so amiable; but these things are very precious to me, and that is why I cannot lightly speak of them.  You will not understand my words now, but perhaps some day it may be my privilege to teach you their signification.”

He stopped.  Chris was gazing at him in amazement, her young face deeply flushed.

“Do you mean me?” she asked at last.  “You didn’t—­you couldn’t—­fight on my account!”

He made her a grave bow.  “I have told you,” he said, “because otherwise you would have thought ill of me.  Now, with your permission, since there is no more to say upon the subject, I will return to my friends.”

He would have left her with the words, but she put out an impulsive hand.  “But, Bertie—­”

He took the hand, looking straight into her eyes, all his formality vanished at a breath.  “Ask me no more, little one,” he said.  “You have asked too much already.  But you do not understand.  Some day I will explain all.  Run home to Mademoiselle la gouvernante now, and forget all this.  To-morrow we will play again together on the shore, draw the pictures that you love, and weave anew our rope of sand.”

He smiled as he said it, but the tenderness of his speech went deep into the girl’s heart.  She suffered him to take leave of her almost in silence.  Those words of his had set vibrating in her some chord of womanhood that none had ever touched before.  It was true that she did not understand, but she was nearer to understanding at that moment than she had ever been before.

CHAPTER VIII

THE ENGLISHMAN

Chris returned quite soberly to the little house on the plage.  The morning’s events had given her a good deal to think about.  That any man should deem it worth his while to fight a duel for her sake was a novel idea that required a good deal of consideration.  It was all very difficult to understand, and she wished that Bertrand had told her more.  What could his adversary of the scowling brows have found to say about her, she wondered?  She had never so much as seen the man before.  How had he managed even to think anything unpleasant of her?  Recalling Bertrand’s fiery eyes, she reflected that it must have been something very objectionable indeed, and wondered how anyone could be so horrid.

These meditations lasted till she reached the garden gate, and here they were put to instant and unceremonious flight, for little Noel hailed her eagerly from the house with a cry of, “Hurry up, Chris!  Hurry up!  You’re wanted!”