“My departure caused you great grief:  I now repent what I did.  But I was young, I was proud, and your reproaches were unjust.”

“Ah,” said she, “you have not forgotten the cause of our quarrel?”

“It was little Rose, our neighbour, whom you said I was making love to, because you found us together at the spring in the little wood.  I explained that we met only by chance,—­besides, she was only a child,—­but you would not listen, and in your anger—­”

“Ah! forgive me, Martin, forgive me!” she interrupted, in confusion.

“In your blind anger you took up, I know not what, something which lay handy, and flung it at me.  And here is the mark,” he continued, smiling, “this scar, which is still to be seen.”

“Oh, Martin!” Bertrande exclaimed, “can you ever forgive me?”

“As you see,” Martin replied, kissing her tenderly.

Much moved, Bertrande swept aside his hair, and looked at the scar visible on his forehead.

“But,” she said, with surprise not free from alarm, “this scar seems to me like a fresh one.”

“Ah!” Martin explained, with a, little embarrassment; “it reopened lately.  But I had thought no more about it.  Let us forget it, Bertrande; I should not like a recollection which might make you think yourself less dear to me than you once were.”

And he drew her upon his knee.  She repelled him gently.

“Send the child to bed,” said Martin.  “Tomorrow shall be for him; to-night you have the first place, Bertrande, you only.”

The boy kissed his father and went.

Bertrande came and knelt beside her husband, regarding him attentively with an uneasy smile, which did not appear to please him by any means.

“What is the matter?” said he.  “Why do you examine me thus?”

“I do not know—­forgive me, oh! forgive me! . . .  But the happiness of seeing you was so great and unexpected, it is all like a dream.  I must try to become accustomed to it; give me some time to collect myself; let me spend this night in prayer.  I ought to offer my joy and my thanksgiving to Almighty God—­”

“Not so,” interrupted her husband, passing his arms round her neck and stroking her beautiful hair.  “No; ’tis to me that your first thoughts are due.  After so much weariness, my rest is in again beholding you, and my happiness after so many trials will be found in your love.  That hope has supported me throughout, and I long to be assured that it is no illusion.”  So saying, he endeavoured to raise her.

“Oh,” she murmured, “I pray you leave me.”

“What!” he exclaimed angrily.  “Bertrande, is this your love?  Is it thus you keep faith with me?  You will make me doubt the evidence of your friends; you will make me think that indifference, or even another love——­”

“You insult me,” said Bertrande, rising to her feet.