It was indeed upon us almost before she ceased speaking.  A sudden rush of wind sent my hat flying into the darkness, and whipped her long black hair loose from its restraining knot.  I had barely time to wrap my hunting-jacket closely around her shoulders, when the rain came dashing against our faces.

I drew her unresistingly around the edge of the nearest sand-pile; but this supplied poor protection against the storm, the wind lashing the fine grit into our faces, stinging us like bits of fire.  I tried to excavate some sort of cave that might afford us at least a partial shelter; but the sand slid down almost as rapidly as I could dig it out with my hands.

“Oh, let us press on!” she urged, laying her hand upon my arm, in entreaty.  “We shall become no wetter moving, and your camp, you said, was only a short distance away.”

“But are you strong enough to walk?” And as I leaned forward toward her, a quick flash of vivid lightning, directly overhead, lit both our faces.  I marked she did not shrink, and no look of fear came into her eyes.

“I am quite myself once more,” she answered confidently.  “It was despair and loneliness that so disheartened me.  I have never been timid physically, and your presence has brought back the courage I needed.”

There was a natural frankness, a peculiar confidence, about this girl, that robbed me of my usual diffidence; and as we struggled forward through the dampening sand, her dress clinging about her and retarding progress, I dared to slip one arm about her waist to help in bearing her along.  She accepted this timely aid in the spirit with which it was offered, without so much as a word of protest; and the wind, battering at our backs, pushed us forward.

“Oh, that troublesome hair!” she exclaimed, as the long tresses whipped in front of our faces, blinding us both.  “I have never before felt so much like sacrificing it.”

“I beg that you will not consider such an act now,” I protested, aiding her to reclaim the truants, “for as I saw it before the darkness fell, your hair was surely worthy of preservation.”

“You laugh at me; I know I must have been a far from pretty sight.”

“Do you wish me to say with frankness what I thought of your appearance under such disadvantages?”

She glanced at me almost archly, in the flash of lightning that rent the sky.

“I am really afraid to answer yes,—­yet perhaps I am brave enough to venture it.”

“I have never been at court, Mademoiselle, and so you may not consider my judgment in such matters of much moment; but I thought you rarely beautiful.”

For a moment she did not attempt to speak, but I could distinctly feel the heaving of her bosom as I held her hard against the assault of the wind, and bent low hoping to catch an answer.

“You are sincere and honest,” she said at last, slowly, and I felt that the faint trace of mockery had utterly vanished from her soft voice.  “’T is manifest in your face and words.  You speak not lightly, nor with mere empty compliment, as would some gilded courtiers I have known; and for that reason I do value your opinion.”