“But how did you know where to find me?” she asked with a quaint touch of immature coquetry.

“I didn’t know,” he replied quietly.  “They told me you had gone to Suresness, and meant to wander homewards through the woods.  It frightened me, for you will have to go through the north-west barrier, and...”

“Well?”

He smiled, and looked earnestly for a moment at the dainty apparition before him.

“Well, you know!” he said gaily, “that tricolour scarf and the red cap are not quite sufficient as a disguise:  you look anything but a staunch friend of the people.  I guessed that your muslin frock would be clean, and that there would still be some tell-tale lace upon it.”

She laughed again, and with delicate fingers lifted her pretty muslin frock, displaying a white frou-frou of flounces beneath the hem.

“How careless and childish!” he said, almost roughly.

“Would you have me coarse and grimy to be a fitting match for your partisans?” she retorted.

His tone of mentor nettled her, his attitude seemed to her priggish and dictatorial, and as the sun disappearing behind a sudden cloud, so her childish merriment quickly gave place to a feeling of unexplainable disappointment.

“I humbly beg your pardon,” he said quietly, “And must crave your kind indulgence for my mood:  but I have been so anxious...”

“Why should you be anxious about me?”

She had meant to say this indifferently, as if caring little what the reply might be:  but in her effort to seem indifferent her voice became haughty, a reminiscence of the days when she still was the daughter of the Duc de Marny, the richest and most high-born heiress in France.

“Was that presumptuous?” he asked, with a slight touch of irony, in response to her own hauteur.

“It was merely unnecessary,” she replied.  “I have already laid too many burdens on your shoulders, without wishing to add that of anxiety.”

“You have laid no burden on me,” he said quietly, “save one of gratitude.”

“Gratitude?  What have I done?”

“You committed a foolish, thoughtless act outside my door, and gave me the chance of easing my conscience of a heavy load.”

“In what way?”

“I had never hoped that the Fates would be so kind as to allow me to render a member of your family a slight service.”

“I understand that you saved my life the other day, Monsieur Deroulede.  I know that I am still in peril and that I owe my safety to you...”

“Do you also know that your brother owed his death to me?”

She closed her lips firmly, unable to reply, wrathful with him, for having suddenly and without any warning, placed a clumsy hand upon that hidden sore.

“I always meant to tell you,” he continued somewhat hurriedly; “for it almost seemed to me that I have been cheating you, these last few days.  I don’t suppose that you can quite realise what it means to me to tell you this just now; but I owe it to you, I think.  In later years you might find out, and then regret the days you spent under my roof.  I called you childish a moment ago, you must forgive me; I know that you are a woman, and hope therefore that you will understand me.  I killed your brother in fair fight.  He provoked me as no man was ever provoked before...”