He was staring into a beautiful face, lively, yet possessing that unmarred serenity which the Greeks gave to their female statues; but it was warm as living flesh is warm.  Every feature expressed nobility in the catholic sense of the word; the proud, delicate nose, the amiable, curving mouth, the firm chin and graceful throat.  In the candle-light the skin had that creamy pallor of porcelain held between the eye and the sun.  The hair alone would have been a glory even to a Helen.  It could be likened to no color other than that russet gold which lines the chestnut bur.  The eyes were of that changing amber of woodland pools in autumn; and a soul lurked in them, a brave, merry soul, more given to song and laughter than to tears.  The child of Venus had taken up his abode in this woman’s heart; for to see her was to love her, and to love her was to despair.

The tableau lasted several seconds.  She was first to recover; being a woman, her mind moved swifter.

“Do I wear the shield of Perseus, and is the head of Medusa thereupon?  Truly, I have turned Monsieur du Cevennes into stone!”

“Diane, can it be you?” he gasped, seeing that the beautiful vision did not vanish into thin air.

“Diane?” she repeated, moving toward the mantel.  “No; not Diane.  I am no longer the huntress; I flee.  Call me Daphne.”

He sprang forward, but she raised her hand warningly.

“Do not come too close, Monsieur, or I shall be forced to change myself into laurel,” still keeping hold of the mythological thread.

“What does it all mean?  I am dazed!” He covered his eyes, then withdrew his hand.  “You are still there?  You do not disappear?”

“I am flesh and blood as yet,” with low laughter.

“And you are here in Quebec?” advancing, his face radiant with love and joy.

“Take care, or you will stumble against your vanity.”  Her glance roved toward the door.  There was something of madness in the Chevalier’s eyes.  In his hands her mask had become a shapeless mass of silken cloth.  “I did not come to Quebec because you were here, Monsieur; though I was perfectly aware of your presence here.  That is why I ask you not to stumble against your vanity.”

“What do you here, in Heaven’s name?”

“I am contemplating peace and quiet for the remainder of my days.  It is quite possible that within a few weeks I shall become . . . a nun.”

“A nun?” stupefied.

“The idea seems to annoy you, Monsieur,” a chill settling upon her tones.

“Annoy me?  No; it terrifies me.  God did not intend you to be a nun; you were born for love.  And is there a man in all the world who loves you half as fondly as I?  You are here in Quebec!  And I never even dared dream of such a possibility!”

“I accompanied a dear friend of mine, whose intention to enter the Ursulines stirred the desire in my own heart.  Love?  Is any man worthy of a woman’s love?  What protestations, what vows to-day!  And to-morrow, over a cup of wine, the man boasts of a conquest, and casts about for another victim.  It is so.”