“Ay! and the better for it.  I have heard my father say the Puritan breed makes the stoutest men-at-arms; that nothing has been found to stiffen a battle-line equal to a good text.  Give this fellow a pike, pit him against a boatload of Spanish papists, and, I ’ll warrant, he ’ll crack more heads than any two of us.  Besides, he controls a perfect tornado of a voice, fit to frighten the crew of a frigate on a dark night.”

She was sitting, her back pressed against a small tree, her hands clasped lightly about one knee, with dark eves gazing afar where the broad river danced away into the golden sheen.

“Geoffrey Benteen,” she asked soberly, never glancing toward me, “is it true you do not desire my return to New Orleans?”

“It is true.”

“Would you honestly tell me why?” and she turned her eyes, looking searchingly into mine.

“I have mentioned sufficient reasons,” I ventured, resolutely facing her, determined to speak frankly and abide the result.  “All I need add is, to my judgment it will prove better for you to remain with your husband.”

She glanced aside at him where he lay, the quick blood flushing her clear cheek.

“You do not like him?” the question fell faltering from her lips.

“That I am not prepared to declare.  He is changeable, somewhat overbearing in speech, not as sober of mind as I am accustomed to find men, yet it is not true I dislike him.  I merely believe that he will do better, be truer to his manhood, with you near him, than with you absent.”

“He is French,” she explained gently, “by nature of birth different from your race.  Besides, he has led a life filled with the dissipation of the town.”

“True! for that reason I forbear judging his words and actions by any standard of my own people.  Yet this I cannot be blind to, Madame; he is of quick temper, hasty in action, easily influenced by others, and might become careless at times, and under strong temptation, unless some moral firmness hold him in check.  You alone possess the power to become his good angel.”

She bowed her head, her gaze again far off upon the river, the deepening surge of color rising upon either cheek.

“You cannot be angry,” I continued gravely, after pausing vainly for a reply.  “Surely I have said no more than you already knew, and I spoke merely in answer to your questioning.”

“No, I am not angry.  But it is not a pleasant reflection underlying the things mentioned, and I cannot assert your judgment of the Chevalier false.  Still I would press you further.  Is this your only reason for desiring me to remain?”

“You wish me to answer frankly?”

“Otherwise I should not ask.”

I felt the quick flush mount even to my hair, yet gripped my breath, making effort to respond boldly.