both sides — a knife that was to all intents and
purposes a dagger.

This done, he rapped impatiently for the
landlord, bade him remove the dishes, and called for
more brandy.

The landlord was distressed beyond measure.
Was not the soup to monsieur's taste? Were
not the cutlets tender? Would not monsieur
permit him to bring the omelette? Hélas! was
monsieur finding himself ill? Would monsieur
choose a cup of tea? More cognac? Good.
Monsieur should have it immediately.

The cognac was brought, and he drank again
eagerly; this time from a wine-glass. The craving
for it was irresistible. It was a second-rate
spirit, more fiery than strong; but it stimulated
him; spurred him to his purpose; nerved his
arm and quickened his brain. For all this, he
was not intoxicated. He felt that he could drink
a bottle of it without producing that result. So
he drank, and drank again; and as he drank, the
fire coursed through his veins till at last he felt
that he could sit there, brooding and silent, no
longer.

He rose and went out hurriedly. The two old
peasants shook their heads over their wine and
looked after him. Diable! There was surely
something strange about the man. Was he ill?
Or mad? Or had he drunk too much cognac?
Bah! was he not an Englishman, and used to it?
Englishmen, look you, mon voisin, drink cognac
like water!

The rain was now driving furiously before the
wind, and sweeping down the road in great gusts,
before which the poplars moaned and shivered
like living things. What, with the sudden shock
of cooler air, and what with the fever in his blood,
the lawyer reeled at first meeting the wind and
rain, and could scarcely keep his feet. But this
was only for a moment. He recovered himself
instantly, and fighting his way in the teeth of the
storm, crept under the lee of the houses till he
came to the side road leading to the Château de
Peyrolles. He found it with difficulty, for the
night was pitch-dark and the rain blinding. On
the high road where all was open, it was yet
possible to see a few feet in advance; but here in the
lane, shut in by trees and high walls on both
sides, he could only feel his way along like a
blind man.

At length he came upon the gates. They were
again locked upon the inside. He tried them—
tried to slip his hand between the bars and turn
the key in the lock; but the bars were too close,
and he could not get his fingers far enough.
Then he stopped, clinging to the gate with both
hands, and staring in. The darkness was so
intense that he could not distinguish the outline of
the house; but he saw lights still burning in
some of the rooms. One in an upper chamber
especially fixed his attention. Was that window
hers?

Oh! the passion, the despair, the desperate
longing that seized upon him at this thought!
If he could but see her once again! — see her;
speak to her; touch her hand; tell her how,
though false to all the world beside, he had been
true at least to her from first to last! He felt
that he had never half told her how he loved her.
He had never even kissed her—never once; for
his respect had been as profound as his love, and
from one so young, so helpless, so bereaved, he
had not dared to claim the smallest privilege of
a lover. He felt now that he would give his soul
to clasp her in his arms and press his lips to hers.
Good God! how he loved her! How his heart
hungered for her!

He shook the gates with all his might—strove
to clamber over them — flung himself against
them; but in vain. Then he pressed his face
against the bars, like a prisoner at the prison
gate, and, sobbing, called upon her name. But
his voice was borne away by the wind, and the
pitiless rain drove in his face and mingled with
his tears.

While he was yet clinging there in the darkness
with his eyes fixed upon the upper window,
the light suddenly vanished. He had made so
certain that it was her light and her window, that
the disappearance of that little spark fell upon
him like a blow. He felt as if the last link were
now broken between them—the last hope gone.

Almost at the same moment, he saw a lantern
(carried apparently by an invisible hand) moving
across the upper end of the court-yard. Again he
shook the gates, and shouted furiously. The
lantern paused—moved on—paused again; and
at last came quickly towards him. Then the
bearer held it high above his head with one
hand, shaded his eyes with the other, and asked
roughly—"Qui est là?"

It was Jacques — the same Jacques who had let
him out an hour or two before, and who,
recognising his voice, again unlocked the gates and
admitted him.

"Tiens!" said he. " They are all in bed là
bas."

William Trefalden's heart leaped with fierce
exultation.

"No matter," he replied. "My visit is to the
gentleman. Tell me where he sleeps. That is
enough."

"What gentleman, m'sieur?"

"He who came to-day with the English curé.
Quick! Time presses, and my business is
urgent."

"But the strange gentleman is no longer here.
He went away about half an hour after
monsieur."

"Went away!"

"Yes, m'sieur— in a cabriolet with four horses,
taking Monsieur le Curé and the young lady with
him."

"Dog, it is a lie!—a lie, and you are paid to
tell it! Give me the truth—the truth this
instant, or I strangle you!"

And, half beside himself, the lawyer twisted
his hands in the lad's collar as if he meant what
he said.

"Ah, monsieur!—for the love of God,