Two feet away, I worshiped her smiling eyes and their curved ivory lids, her rounded head with its abundant cap of hair, her chin, her shoulders, her bust, the hands in her lap, the very sweep of her scant gown about her feet.

The flash of extreme happiness passing, she said gravely,

“But that was a strange thing—­that you should fall unconscious!”

“Not so strange,” I said; and told her how many times before the eclipse—­under the edge of which my boyhood was passed—­had completely shadowed me.  At the account of Ste. Pelagie she leaned toward me, her hands clenched on her breast.  When we came to the Hotel Dieu she leaned back pallid against the stone.

“Dear Marquis du Plessy!” she whispered, as his name entered the story.

When it was ended she drew some deep breaths in the silence.

“Sire, you must be very careful.  That Bellenger is an evil man.”

“But a weak one.”

“There may be a strength of court policy behind him.”

“The policy of the court at Mittau is evidently a policy of denial.”

“Your sister believed in you.”

“Yes, she believed in me.”

“I don’t understand,” said Madame de Ferrier, leaning forward on her arms, “why Bellenger had you in London, and another boy on the mountain.”

“Perhaps we shall never understand it.”

“I don’t understand why he makes it his business to follow you.”

“Let us not trouble ourselves about Bellenger.”

“But are you safe in France since the Marquis du Plessy’s death?”

“I am safe to-night, at least.”

“Yes, far safer than you would be in Paris.”

“And Skenedonk is my guard.”

“I have sent a messenger to Plessy for him,” Madame de Ferrier said.  “He will be here in the morning.”

I thanked her for remembering him in the excitement of her home coming.  We heard a far sweet call through a cleft of the hills, and Eagle turned her head.

“That must be the shepherd of Les Rochers.  He has missed a lamb.  Les Rochers is the most distant of our farms, but its night noises can be heard through an opening in the forest.  Paul will soon be listening for all these sounds!  We must drive to Les Rochers to-morrow.  It was there that Cousin Philippe died.”

I could not say how opportunely Cousin Philippe had died.  The violation of her childhood by such a marriage rose up that instant a wordless tragedy.

“Sire, we are not observing etiquette in Mont-Louis as they observe it at Mittau.  I have been talking very familiarly to my king.  I will keep silent.  You speak.”

“Madame, you have forbidden me to speak!”

She gave me a startled look, and said,

“Did you know Jerome Bonaparte has come back?  He left his wife in America.  She cannot be received in France, because she has committed the crime of marrying a prince.  She is to be divorced for political reasons.”