He entered the hut and looked carelessly around.  A rude table stood at one side.  On the top of it Victor had carved his initials.  The Chevalier’s eyes filled.  Brave poet!  Always ready with the jest, light of heart and cheery, gentle and tender, brave as a lion, too.  Here was a man such as God intended all men to be.  A beggar himself, he gave his last crown to the beggar; undismayed, he would borrow from his friend, paying the crown back in golden louis.  How he loved the lad!  Only that morning he had romped about the mess-room like a boy escaped from the school-room; imitated Mazarin, Uncle Gaston, the few great councillors, and the royal actors themselves.  Even the austere visage of the Father Superior had relaxed and Du Puys had roared with laughter.  What was this sudden chill?  Or was it his fancy?  He stepped into the open again, and found it warm.

“She will be here soon.  It is after four.  What can she have to say?”

Even as he spoke he heard a sound.  It was madame, alone, and she was hurrying along the path.  A moment later and they stood together before the threshold of the hut.  There was mutual embarrassment which was difficult to analyze.  The exertion of the walk had filled her cheeks with a color as brilliant as the bunch of maple leaves which she had fastened at her throat.  She was first to speak.

“Well, Monsieur,” not over warmly, “what is it you have to say to me which necessitates my coming so far?  I believed we had not much more to say.”  There was no distrust in her eyes, only a cold inquiry.  “Are you going to apologize for applying to me the term ’dishonest’?”

The joy vanished from his face, to be replaced by an anxiety which lightened the tan on his cheeks.  “Madame, it was your note which brought me here.  Read it.”

“A clumsy imitation,” quickly; “it is not my writing.  I suppose, then, that this is also a forgery?” handing him a note which was worded identically the same as his own, “Some one has been playing us a sorry trick.”  She was angered.

“Let us go back immediately, Madame.  We stand in the midst of some secret danger.”

But even as he spoke she uttered a suppressed cry and clutched his arm.

The Chevalier saw four men advancing with drawn swords.  They formed a semicircle around the hut, cutting off all avenues of escape.  Quickly he thrust madame into the hut, whipped out his blade, bared his arm, and waited just inside the doorway.  Everything was plain to him.  Eh! well, some one would take the journey with him; he would not set out alone.  And madame!  He was unnerved for a moment.

“Diane,” he said, “forgive me as easily as I forgive you,” he said quietly.  “And pray for us both.  I shall be too busy.”

She fell upon her knees, folding her hands across her heaving bosom.  Her lips moved, but without sound.  She saw, possibly, farther into this dark design than the Chevalier.  Women love brave men, even as brave men love woman’s beauty; and persistently into her prayers stole the thought that this man who was about to defend her honor with his life was among the bravest.  A sob choked her.