It was with almost a sheepish expression that the Frenchman took the proffered fingers, for there had been that in the frank avowal of confidence and friendship which smote upon a chord of honor in the man’s soul that had not vibrated in response to a chivalrous impulse for so many long years that it had near atrophied from disuse.

Then, of a sudden, the second officer of the Halfmoon straightened to his full height.  His head went high, and he took the small hand of the girl in his own strong, brown one.

“Miss Harding,” he said, “I have led a hard, bitter life.  I have not always done those things of which I might be most proud:  but there have been times when I have remembered that I am the grandson of one of Napoleon’s greatest field marshals, and that I bear a name that has been honored by a mighty nation.  What you have just said to me recalls these facts most vividly to my mind—­I hope, Miss Harding, that you will never regret having spoken them,” and to the bottom of his heart the man meant what he said, at the moment; for inherent chivalry is as difficult to suppress or uproot as is inherent viciousness.

The girl let her hand rest in his for a moment, and as their eyes met she saw in his a truth and honesty and cleanness which revealed what Theriere might have been had Fate ordained his young manhood to different channels.  And in that moment a question sprang, all unbidden and unforeseen to her mind; a question which caused her to withdraw her hand quickly from his, and which sent a slow crimson to her cheek.

Billy Byrne, slouching by, cast a bitter look of hatred upon the two.  The fact that he had saved Theriere’s life had not increased his love for that gentleman.  He was still much puzzled to account for the strange idiocy that had prompted him to that act; and two of his fellows had felt the weight of his mighty fist when they had spoken words of rough praise for his heroism—­Billy had thought that they were kidding him.

To Billy the knocking out of Theriere, and the subsequent kick which he had planted in the unconscious man’s face, were true indications of manliness.  He gauged such matters by standards purely Grand Avenuesque and now it enraged him to see that the girl before whose very eyes he had demonstrated his superiority over Theriere should so look with favor upon the officer.

It did not occur to Billy that he would care to have the girl look with favor upon him.  Such a thought would have sent him into a berserker rage; but the fact remained that Billy felt a strong desire to cut out Theriere’s heart when he saw him now in close converse with Barbara Harding—­just why he felt so Billy could not have said.  The truth of the matter is that Billy was far from introspective; in fact he did very little thinking.  His mind had never been trained to it, as his muscles had been trained to fighting.  Billy reacted more quickly to instinct than to the processes of reasoning, and on this account it was difficult for him to explain any great number of his acts or moods—­it is to be doubted, however, that Billy Byrne had ever attempted to get at the bottom of his soul, if he possessed one.