Norbert felt that heaven had opened before his very eyes.  “Let me go for help,” exclaimed he.

“No, no; it was a mere scratch.”  And, raising her skirt, she displayed a foot that might have turned a steadier head than Norbert’s.  “See,” said she, “it is there that I am in pain.”

And she pointed to a spot of blood upon the delicate white stocking.  At the sight of this the young man’s terror increased, and he started to his feet.

“Let me run to the Chateau,” said he, “and in less than an hour—­”

“Do nothing of the kind,” interrupted the girl; “it is a mere nothing.  Look, I can move my foot with ease.”

“But let me entreat you—­”

“Hush! we shall soon see what it is that has happened.”  And she inspected what she laughingly termed his terrible wound.

It was, as she had supposed, a mere nothing.  One pellet had grazed the skin, another had lodged in the flesh, but it was quite on the surface.

“A surgeon must see to this,” said Norbert.

“No, no.”  And with the point of a penknife she pulled out the little leaden shot.  The young man remained still, holding his breath, as a child does when he is putting the topmost story on a house of cards.  He had never heard so soft a voice, never gazed on so perfectly lovely a face.  In the meantime Diana had torn up her handkerchief and bandaged the wound.  “Now that is over,” exclaimed she, with a light laugh, as she extended her slender fingers to Norbert, so that he might assist her to rise.

As soon as she was on her feet, she took a few steps with the prettiest limp imaginable.

“Are you in pain?” said he anxiously.

“No, I am not indeed; and by this evening I shall have forgotten all about it.  But confess, Marquis,” she added, with a coquettish laugh, “that this is a droll way of making an acquaintance.”

Norbert started at the word Marquis, for no one but Daumon had ever addressed him thus.

“She does not despise me,” thought he.

“This little incident will be a lesson to me,” continued she.  “Mamma always has told me to keep to the highroad; but I preferred the by-paths because of the lovely scenery.”

Norbert, for the first time in his life, realized that the view was a beautiful one.

“I am this way nearly every day,” pursued Diana, “though I am very wicked to disobey my mother.  I go to see poor La Berven.  She is dying of consumption, poor thing, and I take her a little soup and wine every now and then.”

She spoke like a real Sister of Mercy, and, in Norbert’s opinion, wings only were lacking to transform her into a perfect angel.

“The poor woman has three children, and their father does nothing for them, for he drinks what he earns,” the young girl went on.

Berven was one of the identical men to whom Norbert had given his promissory note for four thousand francs, for he was one of the two men who had intrusted Daumon with their savings for investment; but the young man was not in a condition to notice this.  Diana had meantime slung her basket on her arm.