CHAPTER I

THE ROCKS OF VALPRÉ

by

ETHEL M. DELL

Author of "The Way of an Eagle," "The Knave of Diamonds," etc.

1913

I Dedicate This Book To MY MOTHER

AS A VERY SMALL TOKEN OF THAT LOVE WHICH NO WORDS CAN EXPRESS

"Love is indestructible:

Its holy flame for ever burneth,

From Heaven it came, to Heaven returneth;

Too oft on Earth a troubled guest,

At times deceived, at times opprest,

It here is tried and purified,

Then hath in Heaven its perfect rest:

It soweth here with toil and care,

Bat the harvest-time of Love is there."

_The Curse of Kehama_--Robert Southey.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

PROLOGUE

I. THE KNIGHT OF THE MAGIC CAVE

II. DESTINY

III. A ROPE OF SAND

IV. THE DIVINE MAGIC

V. THE BIRTHDAY TREAT

VI. THE SPELL

VII. IN THE CAUSE OF A WOMAN

VIII. THE ENGLISHMAN

PART I

I. THE PRECIPICE

II. THE CONQUEST

III. THE WARNING

IV. DOUBTS

V. DE PROFUNDIS

VI. ENGAGED

VII. THE SECOND WARNING

VIII. THE COMPACT

IX. A CONFESSION

X. A SURPRISE VISIT

XI. THE EXPLANATION

XII. THE BIRTHDAY PARTY

XIII. PALS

XIV. A REVELATION

XV. MISGIVINGS

XVI. MARRIED

PART II

I. SUMMER WEATHER

II. ONE OF THE FAMILY

III. DISASTER

IV. GOOD-BYE TO CHILDHOOD

V. THE LOOKER-ON

VI. A BARGAIN

VII. THE ENEMY

VIII. THE THIN END

IX. THE ENEMY MOVES

X. A WARNING VOICE

XI. A BROKEN REED

XII. A MAN OF HONOUR

XIII. WOMANHOOD

PART III

I. WAR

II. FIREWORKS

III. THE TURN OF THE TIDE

IV. "MINE OWN FAMILIAR FRIEND"

V. A DESPERATE REMEDY

VI. WHEN LOVE DEMANDS A SACRIFICE

VII. THE WAY OF THE WYNDHAMS

VIII. THE TRUTH

PART IV

I. THE REFUGEE

II. A MIDNIGHT VISITOR

III. A FRUITLESS ERRAND

IV. THE DESIRE OF HIS HEART

V. THE STRANGER

VI. MAN TO MAN

VII. THE MESSENGER

VIII. ARREST

IX. VALPRÉ AGAIN

X. THE INDESTRUCTIBLE

XI. THE END OF THE VOYAGE

XII. THE PROCESSION UNDER THE WINDOWS

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER I

THE KNIGHT OF THE MAGIC CAVE

When Cinders began to dig a hole no power on earth, except brute force,

could ever stop him till he sank exhausted. Not even the sight of a crab

could divert his thoughts from this entrancing occupation, much less his

mistress's shrill whistle; and this was strange, for on all other

occasions it was his custom to display the most exemplary obedience.

Of a cheerful disposition was Cinders, deeply interested in all things

living, despising nothing however trivial, constantly seeking, and very

often finding, treasures of supreme value in his own estimation. It was

probably this passion for investigation that induced him to dig with such

energy and perseverance, but he was not an interesting companion when the

digging mood was upon him. It was, in fact, advisable to keep at a

distance, for he created a miniature sand-storm in his immediate vicinity

that spoiled the amusement of all except himself and successfully checked

all intrusive sympathy.

"It really is too bad of him," said Chris, as she sat on a rock at twelve

yards' distance and dried her feet in melancholy preoccupation. "It's the

third day running, and I'm so tired of having nobody to talk to and

nothing to do--not even a crab-hunt."

There was some pleasure to be extracted from crab-hunting under Cinders'

ardent leadership, but alone it held no fascinations. It really was just

a little selfish of Cinders.

She glanced towards him, and saw that the sand-storm had temporarily

abated. He was working away the heap that had collected beneath him in

preparation for more extensive operations.

"Cinders!" she called, in the forlorn hope of attracting his attention.

"Cinders!" Then, with a sudden spurt of animation, "Cinders darling, just

come and see what I've found!"

But Cinders was not so easily deceived. He stood a moment with his stubby

little body tensely poised, then plunged afresh with feverish eagerness

to his task.

The sand-storm recommenced, and Chris turned with a sigh to contemplate

the blue horizon. A large steamer was travelling slowly across it. She

watched it enviously.

"Lucky people!" she said. "Lucky, lucky people!"

The wind caught her red-brown hair and blew it out like a cloak behind

her. It was still damp, for she had been bathing, and when the wind had

passed it settled again in long, gleaming ripples upon her shoulders. She

pushed it away from her face with an impatient hand.

"Cinders," she said, "if you don't come soon I shall go and find the

Knight of the Magic Cave all by myself."

But even this threat did not move the enthusiastic Cinders. All that

could be seen of him was a pair of sturdy hind-legs firmly planted amid a

whirl of sand. Quite plainly it was nothing to him what steps his young

mistress might see fit to take to relieve her boredom.

"All right!" said Chris, springing to her feet with a flourish of her

towel. "Then good-bye!"

She shook the hair back from her face, slipped her bare feet into

sandals, slung the towel across her shoulders, and turned her face to the

cliffs.

They frowned above the rock-strewn beach to a height of two hundred feet,

tunnelled here and there by the sea, scored here and there by springs,

rising mass upon mass, in some places almost perpendicular, in others

overhanging.

They possessed an immense fascination for Chris Wyndham, these cliffs.

There was a species of dreadful romance about them that attracted even

while it awed her. She longed to explore them, and yet deep in the most

private recesses of her soul she was half-afraid. So many terrible

stories were told of this particular corner of the rocky coast. So many

ships were wrecked, so many lives were lost, so many hopes were quenched

forever between the cliffs and the sea.

But these facts did not prevent her weaving romances about those

wonderful caves. For instance, there was the Magic Cave, for which she

was bound now, the entrance to which was only accessible at low tide.

There was something particularly imposing about this entrance, something

palatial, that stirred the girl's quick fancy. She had never before quite

reached it on account of the difficulty of the approach; but she had

promised herself that she would do so sooner or later, when time and tide

should permit.

Both chanced to be favourable on this particular afternoon, and she set

forth light-footed upon the adventure, leaving Cinders to his monotonous

but all-engrossing pastime. A wide line of rocks stretched between her

and her goal, which was dimly discernible in the deep shadow of the

cliff--a mysterious opening that had the appearance of a low Gothic

archway.

"I'm sure it's haunted," said Chris, and fell forthwith to dreaming as

she stepped along the sunlit sand.

Of course she would find an enchanted hall, peopled by crabs that were

not crabs at all, but the afore-mentioned knight and his retinue, all

bound by the same wicked spell. "And I shall have to find out what it is

and set him free," said Chris, with a sigh of pleasurable anticipation.

"And then, I suppose, he will begin to jabber French, and I shall wish to

goodness I hadn't. I expect he will want to marry me, poor thing! And I

shall have to explain--in French, ugh!--that as he is only a foreigner I

couldn't possibly, under any circumstances, entertain such a preposterous

notion for a single instant. No, I am afraid that would sound rather

rude. How else could I put it?"

Chris's brow wrinkled over the problem. She had reached the outlying

rocks of the belt she had to cross, and was picking her way between the

pools in deep abstraction.

"I wonder!" she murmured to herself. "I wonder!"

Then suddenly her rapt expression broke into a merry smile. "I know!

Of course! Absurdly easy! I shall tell him that I am under a spell

too--bound beyond all chance of escape to marry an Englishman." The sweet

face dimpled over the inspiration. "That ought to settle him, unless he

is very persevering; in which case of course I should have to tell

him--quite kindly--that I really didn't think I could. Fancy marrying a

crab--and a French crab too!"

She began to laugh, gaily, irrepressibly, light-heartedly, and skipped on

to the first weed-covered rock that obstructed her path. It was an

exceedingly slippery perch. She poised herself with arms outspread, with

a butterfly grace as airy as her visions.

Away in the distance Cinders, nearing exhaustion, leaned on one elbow and

scratched spasmodically with his free paw.

"Good-bye, Cinders!" she called to him in her high young voice. "I'm

never coming back any more."

Lightly she waved her hand and sprang for another rock. But her feet

slipped on the seaweed, and she splashed down into a pool ankle-deep.

"Bother!" she said, with vehemence. "It's these silly sandals. I'll leave

them here till I come back."

She scrambled out again and pulled them off. "If I really don't come back

I shan't want them," she reflected, with her merry little smile.

She arranged sandals and towel on the flat surface of a rock and pursued

her pilgrimage unhampered.

She certainly managed better without the sandals, but even as it was she

slipped and slid a good deal on the treacherous seaweed. It took her

considerably longer than she had anticipated to cross that belt of rocks.

It was much farther than it looked. Moreover, the pools were so full of

interest that she had to stop and investigate them as she went. Anemones,

green and red, clung to the shining rocks, and crabs of all sizes

scuttled away at her approach.

"What a lot of retainers he must have!" said Chris.

She was nearing the Gothic archway, and her heart began to beat fast in

anticipation. What she really expected to find she could not have said.

But undoubtedly this particular cave was many degrees more mysterious and

more eerie than any other she had ever explored. It was very lonely, and

the cliff that frowned above her was very black. The afternoon sun shone

genially upon all things, however, and this gave her courage.

The waves foamed among the rocks but a few yards from the jutting

headland. Already the tide was turning. That meant that her time was

short.

"I won't go beyond the entrance to-day," said Chris. "But to-morrow I'll

start earlier and go right in. P'raps Cinders will come too. It wouldn't

be so lonely with Cinders."

The rocks all about her lay scattered like gigantic ruins. She stood

upon a high boulder and peered around her. There was certainly something

awe-inspiring about the place, the bright sun notwithstanding. It seemed

to lie beneath a spell. She wondered if she would come across any bits of

wreckage, and suppressed a shudder. The Gothic archway looked very dark

and vault-like from where she stood. Should she, after all, go any

nearer? Should she wait till Cinders would deign to accompany her? The

tide was undoubtedly rising. In any case she would have to turn back

within the next few minutes.

Slowly she pivoted round and looked again from the smiling horizon

whereon no ship was visible to the Magic Cave that yawned in the

face of the cliff. The next instant she jumped so violently that

she missed her footing and fell from her perch in sheer amazement.

Something--someone--was moving just within the deep shadow where the

sunlight could not penetrate!

It was not a big drop, but she came to earth with a cry of pain among a

mass of fallen stones, whereon she subsided, tightly clasping one foot

between her hands. She had stumbled upon wreckage to her cost; a piece of

rusty iron at her side and the blood that ran out between her locked

fingers testified to that.

"Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" she wailed, rocking herself, and then glanced

nervously over her shoulder, remembering the mysterious cause of the

disaster.

The next moment swiftly she released the injured foot and sprang up. A

man, attired in white linen, had emerged from the Magic Cave.

He stood a second looking at her, then came bounding towards her over the

rocks.

Chris shrank back against her boulder. She was feeling dizzy and rather

sick, and the apparition frightened her.

As he drew near she waved a desperate hand to stay his approach. "Oh,

please go away!" she cried in English. "I--I don't want any help. I'm

only looking for crabs."

He paid no attention whatever to her gesture or to her words. Only,

reaching her, he bowed very low, beginning with some formality, "_Mais,

mademoiselle; permettez-moi, je vous prie_," and ending in tones of quick

compassion, "_Ah, pauvre petite! Pauvre petite_!"

Before she knew his intention he was on his knees before her, and had

taken the cut foot very gently into his hands.

Chris leaned back, clinging to the boulder. The sunlight danced giddily

in her eyes. She felt as if she were slipping over the edge of the world.

"I can't--stand," she faltered weakly.

"No, no, _petite_! But naturally!" came the reassuring reply. "Be seated,

I beg. Permit me to assist you!"

Chris, being quite incapable of doing otherwise, yielded herself to

the gentle insistence of an arm that encircled her. She had an

impression--fleeting at the time but returning to her later--of friendly

dark eyes that looked for an instant into hers; and then, exactly how it

happened she knew not, she was sitting propped against the rock, while

all the world swam dizzily around her, and someone with sure, steady

hands wound a bandage tightly and ever more tightly around her wounded

foot.

"It hurts!" she murmured piteously.

"Have patience, mademoiselle! It will be better in a moment," came the

quick reply. "I shall not hurt you more than is necessary. It is to

arrest the bleeding, this. Mademoiselle will endure the pain like a brave

child, yes?"

Chris swallowed a little shudder. The dizziness was passing. She was

beginning to see more clearly, and her gaze travelled with dawning

criticism over the neat white figure that ministered so confidently to

her need.

"I knew he'd be French," she whispered half aloud.

"But I speak English, mademoiselle," he returned, without raising his

black head,

"Yes," she said, with a sigh of relief. "I'm very glad of that. Must you

pull it any tighter? I--I can bear it, of course, but I'd much rather you

didn't if--if you don't mind."

She spoke gaspingly. Her eyes were full of tears, though she kept them

resolutely from falling.

"Poor little one!" he said. "But you are very brave. Once more--so--and

we will not do it again. The pain is not so bad now, no?"

He looked up at her with a smile so kindly that Chris nearly broke down

altogether. She made a desperate grab after her self-control, and by dint

of biting her lower lip very hard just saved herself from this calamity.

It was a very pleasing face that looked into her own, olive-hued, with

brows as delicate as a woman's. A thin line of black moustache outlined a

mouth that was something over-sensitive. He was certainly quite a

captivating fairy prince.

Chris shook the thick hair back upon her shoulders and surveyed him with

interest. "It's getting better," she said. "It was a horrid cut, wasn't

it? You don't know how it hurt."

"But I can imagine it," he declared. "I saw immediately that it was

serious. Mademoiselle cannot attempt to walk."

"Oh, but I must indeed!" protested Chris in dismay. "I shall be drowned

if I stay here."

He shook his head. "Ah no, no! You shall not stay here. If you will

accept my assistance, all will be well."

"But you can't--carry me!" gasped Chris.

He rose to his feet, still smiling. "And why not, little one? Because you

think that I have not the strength?"

Chris looked up at him speculatively. She felt no shyness; he was not the

sort of person with whom she could feel shy. He was too kindly, too

protecting, too altogether charming, for that. But he was of slender

build, and she could not help entertaining a very decided doubt as to his

physical powers.

"I am much heavier--and much older--than you think," she remarked at

length.

He laughed boyishly, as if she had made a joke. "_Mais c'est drôle,

cela_! Me, I have no thoughts upon the subject, mademoiselle. I believe

what I see, and I assure you that I am well capable of carrying you

across the rocks to Valpré. You lodge at Valpré?"

Chris nodded. "And you? No," hastily checking herself, "don't tell me!

You live in the Magic Cave, of course. I knew you were there. It was why

I came."

"You knew, mademoiselle?" His eyes interrogated her.

She nodded again in answer. "You have lived there for hundreds of years.

You were under a spell, and I came and broke it. If I hadn't cut my foot,

you would have been there still. Do you really think you can lift me? And

what shall you do when you come to cross the rocks? They are much too

slippery to walk on."

He stooped to raise her, still smiling. "Have no fear, mademoiselle! I

know these rocks by heart."

She laughed with a child's pure merriment. "Oh, I am not afraid, _preux

chevalier_. But if you find me too heavy--"

"If I cannot carry the queen of the fairies," he interrupted, "I am not

worthy of the name."

He had her in his arms with the words, holding her lightly and easily, as

if she had been an infant. His eyes smiled reassuringly into hers.

"So, mademoiselle! We depart for Valpré!"

"What fun!" said Chris.

It seemed she was to enjoy her adventure after all, adverse circumstances

notwithstanding. Her foot throbbed and burned, but she put this fact

resolutely away from her. She had found the knight, and, albeit he was

French, she was very pleased with him. He was the prettiest toy that had

ever yet come her way.

Possibly in this respect the knight's sentiments resembled hers. For she

was very enchanting, this English girl, fresh as a rose and gay as a

butterfly, with a face that none called beautiful but which most paused

to admire. It was the vividness, the entrancing vitality of her, that

caught the attention. People smiled almost unwittingly when little Chris

Wyndham turned her laughing eyes their way; they were so clear, so blue,

so confidingly merry. There was a rare sweetness about her, a spontaneous

charm irresistibly winning. She loved everybody without effort, as

naturally as she loved life, with an absence of self-consciousness so

entire that perhaps it was not surprising that she was loved in return.

"You are much stronger than you look, _preux chevalier_," she remarked

presently. "But wouldn't you like to set me down while you go and fetch

my sandals? They are over there on the rocks. It would be a pity for them

to get washed away, and I might manage to walk with them on."

He had brought her safely over the most difficult part of the way. He

seated her at once upon a flat rock, and stooped to assure himself as to

the success of his bandage.

"It gives you not so much of pain, no?" he asked.

"It scarcely hurts at all," she assured him. "You will be quick now,

won't you, because I ought to be getting back. If you see Cinders, you

might bring him too."

"Cinders?" he questioned, pausing.

"My dog," she explained. "But he doesn't talk French, so I don't suppose

he will follow you."

He received the information with a smile. "But I speak English,

mademoiselle," he protested for the second time.

"Ah yes, you do--after a fashion," admitted Chris. "But I don't suppose

Cinders would understand it. It's not very English English."

He raised his shoulders in a gesture that was purely French. "_La belle

dame sans merci_!" he murmured ruefully. "_Bien_! I will do my possible."

"Splendid!" laughed Chris. "No one could do more."

She watched him go with eyes that sparkled with merriment. The trim,

slight figure was quite good to look upon. He went bounding over the

rocks with the sure-footed grace of a chamois.

"I wonder who he really is," said Chris, "and where he comes from."

CHAPTER II

DESTINY

Over the rocks went the stranger with the careless speed of youth,

humming to himself in a soft tenor, his brown face turned to the sun. The

pleasant smile was still upon it. He had the look of one in whose eyes

all things are good.

Ahead of him gleamed the towel with the sandals upon it, sandals that

might have been fashioned for fairy feet. He quickened his pace at sight

of them. But she was charming, this English child! He had never before

seen anyone quite so dainty. And of a courage unique in one so young!

He was nearing the sandals now, but the sun was in his eyes, and he saw

only the towel spread like a tablecloth over the rock. He sprang lightly

down on to a heap of shingle, and reached for it, still humming the

_chanson_ that the little English girl had somehow put into his head.

The next instant a deep growl arrested him, and sharply he drew back.

There was something more than a pair of sandals on the towel above him,

something that crouched in an attitude of tense hostility, daring him to

approach. It was only a small creature that thus challenged him, only a

weird black terrier of doubtful extraction, but he bristled from end to

end with animosity. Quite plainly he regarded the sandals as his

responsibility. With glaring eyes and gleaming teeth he crouched,

prepared to defend them.

The young Frenchman's discomfiture was but momentary. In an instant he

had taken in the situation and the humour of it.

"But it is the good Cinders!" he said aloud, and extended a fearless

hand. "So, my friend, so! The little mistress waits."

Cinders' growl became a snarl. He sucked up his breath in furious

protest, threatening murder. But the stranger's hand was not withdrawn.

On the contrary it advanced upon him with the utmost deliberation till

Cinders was compelled to jerk backwards to avoid it.

So jerking, he missed his footing as his mistress had before him, lost

his balance, and rolled, cursing, clinging, and clambering, over the edge

of the rock.

Had the Frenchman laughed at that moment he would have made an enemy for

life. But most fortunately he did not regard an antagonist's downfall as

a fit subject for mirth. In fact, being of a chivalrous turn, he grabbed

at the luckless Cinders, clutched his collar, and dragged him up again.

And--perhaps it was the generosity of the action, perhaps only its

obvious fearlessness--he won Cinders' heart from that instant. His

hostility merged into sudden ardent friendship. He set his paws on the

young man's chest, and licked his face.

Thenceforth he was more than welcome to sandals and towel and even the

effusive Cinders himself, who leaped around him barking in high delight,

and accompanied him with giddy circlings upon his return journey.

Chris, who had viewed the encounter from afar with much interest, clapped

her hands at their approach.

"And you weren't a bit afraid!" she laughed. "I couldn't think what you

would do. Cinders looked so fierce. But any one can see you understand

dogs--even English dogs."

"It is possible that at heart the English and the French resemble each

other more than we think, mademoiselle," observed the Frenchman. "One can

never tell."

He bent again over the injured foot with the sandal in his hand.

"It's very good of you to take all this trouble," said Chris abruptly.

He flashed her a quick smile. "But no, mademoiselle! It gives me pleasure

to be of service to you."

"I'm sure I don't know what I should have done without you," she

rejoined. "Ah, that is much better. I shall be able to walk now."

"You think it?" He looked at her doubtfully.

She nodded. "If you will take me as far as the sand, I shall do

splendidly then. You see, I can't let you come into Valpré with me

because--because--"

"Because, mademoiselle--?" Up went the black brows questioningly.

She flushed a little, but her clear eyes met his with absolute candour.

"We have a French governess," she explained, "who was brought up in a

convent, so she is very easily shocked. If she knew that I had spoken to

a stranger, and a man"--she raised her hands with a merry gesture--"she

would have a fit--several fits. I couldn't risk it. Poor mademoiselle!

She doesn't understand our English ways a bit. Why, she wouldn't even let

me paddle if she could help it. I shall have to keep very quiet about

this foot of mine, or it will be '_Jamais encore_!' and '_Encore

jamais_!' for the rest of my natural life. And, after all," pathetically,

"there can be no great harm in dipping one's feet in sea-water, can

there?"

But the Frenchman looked grave. "You will show your foot to the doctor,

will you not?" he said.

"Dear me, no!" said Chris.

"_Mais, mademoiselle_--"

She checked him with her quick, winning smile.

"Please don't talk French. I like English so much the best. Besides, it's

holiday-time."

"But, mademoiselle," he persisted, "if it should become serious!"

"Oh, it won't," she said lightly. "I shall be all right. Nothing ever

happens to me."

"Nothing?" he questioned, with an answering smile.

She was hobbling over the stones with his assistance. "Nothing

interesting, I assure you," she said.

"Except when mademoiselle goes to the cavern of the fairies to look for

the magic knight?" he suggested.

She threw him a merry glance. "To be sure! I will come and see you again

some day when the tide is low. Is there a dragon in the cave?"

"He is there only when the tide is high, mademoiselle, a beast enormous

with eyes of fire."

"And a princess?" asked the English girl, keenly interested.

"No, there is no princess."

"Only you and the dragon?"

"Generally only me, mademoiselle."

"Whatever do you do there?" she asked curiously.

His smile was bafflingly direct. "Me? I make magic, mademoiselle."

"What sort of magic?"

"What sort? That is a difficult question."

"May I come and see it?" asked Chris eagerly, scenting a mystery.

He hesitated.

"I'll come all by myself," she assured him.

"_Mais la gouvernante_--"

"As if I should bring her! No, no! I'll come alone--with Cinders."

"_Mais, mademoiselle_--"

"If you say that again I shall be cross," announced Chris.

"But--pardon me, mademoiselle--the governess, might she not object?"

"Absurd!" said Chris. "I am not a French girl, and I won't behave like

one."

He laughed at that, plainly because he could not help it. "Mademoiselle

pleases herself!" he observed.

"Of course I do," returned Chris vigorously. "I always have. I may come

then?"

"But certainly."

"When?"

"When you will, mademoiselle."

Chris considered. They had reached the firm sand, and she stood still. "I

can't come to-morrow because of my foot, and the day after the tide will

be too late. I shall have to wait nearly a fortnight. How dull!"

"In a fortnight, then!" said the Frenchman.

"In a fortnight, _preux chevalier_!" Her eyes laughed up at him. "But I

dare say we shall meet before then. I hope we shall."

"I hope it also, mademoiselle." He bowed courteously.

She held out her hand. "I shall come on the tenth of the month--it's my

birthday. I'll bring some cakes, and we'll have a party, and invite the

dragon." Her eyes danced. "We will have some fun, shall we?"

"I think that we shall not want the dragon," he smiled back.

"No? Perhaps not. Well, I'll bring Cinders instead."

"Ah, the good Cinders! He is different."

"And we will go exploring," she said eagerly. "I shan't be a bit afraid

of anything with you there. The tenth, then! Don't forget! Good-bye, and

thank you ever so much! You won't fail me, will you?"

He bent low over the impetuous little hand. "I shall not fail you,

mademoiselle. _Adieu_!"

"_Au revoir_!" she laughed back. "Come along, Cinders! We shall be late

for tea."

He stood motionless on the sunlit sand and watched her go.

She was limping, but she moved quickly notwithstanding. Cinders trotted

soberly by her side.

As she reached the little _plage_, she turned as if aware of his watching

eyes and nonchalantly waved the towel that dangled on her arm. The

sunlight had turned her hair to burnished copper. It made her for the

moment wonderful, and a gleam of swift admiration shot across the

Frenchman's face.

"_Merveilleux_!" he whispered to himself, and half-aloud, "Good-bye,

little bird of Paradise!"

With a courteous gesture of farewell, he turned away. When he looked

again, the child, with her glorious, radiant hair, had passed from sight.

He went back, springing over the rocks, to the Gothic archway that had

fired her curiosity. The tide was rising fast. Already the white foam

raced up to the rocky entrance. He splashed through it, and went within

as one on business bent.

He was absent for some seconds, and soon a large wave broke with a long

roar and rushed swirling into the cave. As the gleaming water ran out

again, he emerged.

A single glance was sufficient to show him that retreat by way of the

beach was already cut off. He recognized the fact with a rueful grimace.

The long green waves tumbling along the rocks were rising higher every

instant.

With a quick glance around him, the young man sprang for an upstanding

rock, reached it in safety, and paused, keenly studying the black face of

the cliff.

It frowned above him like a rampart, gloomy, terrible, impregnable. He

shrugged his shoulders with another grimace, then, as the foam splashed

up over his feet, leaped lightly onto another rock higher than the first,

whence it was possible to reach a great buttress that jutted outwards

from the cliff itself.

Once upon this, he began to climb diagonally, clambering like a monkey,

availing himself of every inch that offered foothold. A slip would have

meant instant disaster, but this fact did not apparently occur to him, or

if it did he was not dismayed thereby. He even presently, as he

cautiously worked his way upwards, began to hum again in gay snatches the

song that a child's clear eyes had set running in his brain that

afternoon.

It was a progress that waxed more perilous as he proceeded. The waves

dashed themselves to cataracts below him. Return was impossible, and many

would have deemed advance equally so. But he struggled on, maintaining

his zigzag course upwards, with nerve unfailing and spirits unimpaired.

Gulls flew out above his head and circled about him with indignant

protests. He looked somewhat like a gigantic gull himself, his slim white

figure outlined against the darkness of the cliff. He cried back to the

startled birds reassuringly in their own language, but the commotion

continued; and presently, finding precarious foothold on a narrow ledge

halfway up, he stopped to wipe his forehead and laugh with merriment

unfeigned. He was plainly in love with life--one in whose eyes all things

were good, but yet who loved the hazard of them even better.

The ledge did not permit of much comfort. Nevertheless he managed to

turn upon it and to lean back against the cliff, with his brown face to

sky and sea. He even, after a moment, took out a cigarette and lighted

it. The sun shone full in his eyes, and he seemed to revel in it. A

sun-worshipper also, apparently!

He smoked his cigarette to the end very deliberately, flicking the

ash from time to time towards the raging water below. When he had

quite finished, he stretched his arms wide with a gesture of sublime

self-confidence, faced about, and very composedly continued his climb.

It grew more and more arduous as he neared the frowning summit. He had to

feel his way with the utmost caution. Once he missed his footing, and

slipped several feet before he could recover himself, and after this

experience he took a clasp-knife from his pocket and notched himself

footholds where none offered. It was a very lengthy business, and the sun

was dipping downwards to the sea ere he came within reach of his goal.

The top of the cliff overhung where he first approached it, and he had to

work a devious course below it till he came to a more favourable place.

Reaching a gap at length, he braced himself for the final effort. The

surface of the cliff here was loose, and the stones rattled continually

from beneath his feet; but he clung like a limpet, nothing daunted, and

at last his hands were gripped in the coarse grass that fringed the

summit. Sheer depth was below him, and the inward-curving cliff offered

no possibility of foothold.

He stood, gathering his strength for a last stupendous effort. It was a

supreme moment. It meant abandoning the support on which he stood and

depending entirely upon the strength of his arms to attain to safety. The

risk was desperate. He stood bracing himself to take it.

Finally, with an upward fling of the head, as of one who diced with the

gods, he gripped that perilous edge and dared the final throw. Slowly,

with stupendous effort, he hoisted himself up. It was the work of an

expert athlete; none other would have attempted it.

Up he went and up, steadily, strongly; his head came level with his

hands; he peered over the edge of the cliff. The strain was terrific. The

careless smile was gone from his lips. In that instant he no longer

ignored what lay behind him; he knew the suspense of the gambler who

pauses after he has thrown before he lifts the dice-box to read his fate.

Up, and still up! The grass was beginning to yield in his clutching

fingers; he dug them into the earth below. Now his shoulders were above

the edge; his chest also, heaving with strenuous effort. To lower himself

again was impossible. His feet dangled over space. And the surging of the

water below him was as the roaring of an angry monster cheated of its

prey.

He set his teeth. He was nearing the end of his strength. Had he, after

all, attempted the impossible, flung the dice too recklessly, dared his

fate too far? If so, he would pay the penalty swiftly, swiftly, down

among the cruel rocks where many another had perished before him.

The surging sounded louder. It seemed to be in his brain. It bewildered

him, deprived him of the power to think. A great many voices seemed to

clamour around him, but only one could be clearly heard; only one, and

that the voice of a child close to him--or was that also an illusion born

of the racking strain that had driven all the blood to his head?

"You won't fail me, will you?" it said.

Surely his grasp was slackening, his powers were passing, when like a

flashlight those words illuminated his brain. He was as one in deep

waters, swamped and sinking; but that voice called him back.

He opened his eyes, he drew a great breath. He flung his whole soul into

one last great effort. He remembered suddenly that the little English

girl, the child with the glorious hair and laughing eyes, his

acquaintance of an hour, would be looking for him exactly two weeks from

that moment. He was sure she would look, and--she would be disappointed

if she looked in vain. One must not disappoint a child.

The memory of her went through him, vivid, enchanting, compelling. It

nerved his sinking heart. It renewed his grip on life. It urged him

upwards.

Only a child! Only a child! But yet--

"I shall not--shall not--fail you!" he gasped, and with the words his

knees reached the top of the cliff.

His strength collapsed instantly, like the snapping of a fiddle-string.

He fell forward on his face, and lay prone...

A little later he worked the whole of his body into security, rolled over

on his back with closed eyes to the sky, and waited while his heart

slowed down to its normal rhythmic beat.

At last, quite suddenly, he sat up and looked around him. The laughter

flashed back into his eyes. He sprang to his feet, mud-stained,

dishevelled, yet exultant.

He clicked his heels together and faced the sinking sun, slim and

upright, one stiff hand to his head. He had diced with the gods, and he

had won.

"_Destinée! Je te salue!_" he said, and the next instant whizzed smartly

round with a soldier's precision of movement and marched away towards the

fortress that crowned the hill above the rocks of Valpré.

CHAPTER III

A ROPE OF SAND

Undoubtedly Mademoiselle Gautier was querulous, and equally without doubt

she had good reason to be so; but it made it a little dull for Chris.

Accidents would happen, wherever one went, and what was the good of

making a fuss?

Of course, every allowance had to be made for poor Mademoiselle in

consideration of the fact that she was torn in pieces by the valiant

attempt to keep her attention focussed upon three children at once. The

effort had not so far been a brilliant success, and Mademoiselle,

conscious within herself of her inability to cope adequately with her

threefold responsibility, being moreover worn out by her gallant struggle

to do so, was inclined to shortness of temper and a severity of judgment

that bordered upon injustice.

If Chris would persist in flying about the shore in that wild fashion

with her hair loose--that flaming hair which Mademoiselle considered in

itself to be almost indecent--what could be expected but that some

_contretemps_ must of necessity arrive? It was useless for Chris to

protest that it was not her hair that had got her into difficulties, that

she had only left it loose to dry it after her bathe, that there had been

no one to see--at least, no one that mattered--and that the cut on her

foot was solely due to the fact that she had taken off her sand-shoes to

climb over the rocks. Mademoiselle only shook her head with pursed lips.

Chris _était méchante--très méchante_, and no amount of arguing would

make her change her opinion upon that point.

So Chris abandoned argument while the worried little Frenchwoman bathed

and bandaged her foot anew. She would not be able to bathe again for at

least a week, and this fact was of itself sufficient to depress her into

silence. Yet, after a little, when Mademoiselle was gone, a cheery little

tune rose to her lips. It was not her nature to be depressed for long.

Mademoiselle Gautier would have been something less than human if she had

not yielded now and then under the perpetual strain in which, for many

days past, she had lived. She had come to Valpré in charge of Chris and

her two young brothers, both of whom had developed diphtheria within a

day or two of their arrival. The children's father was absent in India;

his only sister, upon whom the cares of his family were supposed to rest,

was entertaining Royalty, and was far too important a personage in the

social world to be spared at short notice. And so the whole burden had

devolved upon poor Mademoiselle Gautier, who had been near her wits' end

with anxiety, but had nobly grappled with her task.

The worst of the business, speaking in a physical sense, was now over.

Both her patients--Maxwell, who was Chris's twin, and little Noel, the

youngest of the family, aged twelve--had turned the corner and were

progressing towards convalescence. Over the latter she still had qualms

of uneasiness, but the elder boy was rapidly picking up his strength and

giving more trouble than he had ever given before in the process.

By inexorable decree Chris was kept away from the two over whom

Mademoiselle, aided by a convent nurse, still watched with unremitting

care; and it did seem a little hard in the opinion of the harassed

Frenchwoman that her one sound charge could not be trusted to conduct

herself with circumspection during her days of enforced solitude. Chris

Wyndham, however, had been a tomboy all her life, and she could scarcely

be expected to reform at such a juncture. She was not accustomed to

solitude, and her restless spirit chafed after distraction.

The conventions had never troubled her. Brought up as she had been with

three unruly boys, running wild with them during the whole of her

childhood, it was scarcely to be wondered at if her outlook on life was

more that of a boy than a girl. She had been in Mademoiselle Gautier's

charge during the past three years, but somehow that had not sobered her

very materially. She was spoilt by all except her aunt, who was wont to

remark with some acidity that if she didn't come to grief one way or

another, this would probably continue to be the case for the term of her

natural life. But it was quite plain that Aunt Philippa expected her to

come to grief. Girls like Chris, unless they married out of the

schoolroom, usually played with fire until they burnt their fingers. The

fact of the matter was Chris was far too attractive, and though as yet

sublimely unconscious of the fact, Aunt Philippa knew that sooner or

later it was bound to dawn upon her. She did not relish the prospect of

steering this giddy little barque through the shoals and quicksands of

society, being shrewdly suspicious that the task might well prove too

much for her. For with all her sweetness, Chris was undeniably wilful, a

princess who expected to have her own way; and Aunt Philippa had a

daughter of her own, Chris's senior by three years, as well as a son in

the Guards, to consider.

No, she did not approve of Chris, or indeed of any of the family,

including her own brother, who was its head. She had not approved of his

gay young wife, Irish and volatile, who had died at the birth of little

Noel. She doubted the stability of each one of them in turn, and plainly

told her brother that he must attend to the launching of his children for

himself. She was willing to do her best for them as children, but as

grown-ups she declined the responsibility.

His answer to this had been that they must remain children until he could

spare the time to attend to them. The eldest boy, Rupert, was now at

Sandhurst, Maxwell was being educated at Marlborough, and Noel, who was

never very strong, was at present with Chris in Mademoiselle Gautier's

care. The summer holiday at Valpré had been Mademoiselle's suggestion,

and bitterly had she lived to regret it.

Chris had regretted it, too, for a time, but now that her two brothers

were well on the road to recovery it seemed absurd not to extract such

enjoyment as she could from the situation. Of course, it was lonely, but

there was always Cinders to fall back upon for comfort. She was thankful

that she had insisted upon bringing him, though Mademoiselle had

protested most emphatically against this addition to the party. How she

was to get him back again she had not begun to consider. Doubtless,

however, Jack would manage it somehow. Jack was the aforementioned cousin

in the Guards, a young man of much kindness and resource, upon whom Chris

was wont to rely as a sort of superior elder brother. He would think

nothing of running over to fetch them home and to assist in the smuggling

of Cinders back into his native land. In fact, if the truth were told, he

would probably rather enjoy it.

In the meantime, here was she, stranded with a damaged foot, and all the

delights of the sea temporarily denied to her. Perhaps not quite all,

when she came to think of it. She could not paddle, but she might manage

to hobble down to the shore, and sit on the sun-baked rocks. Even

Mademoiselle could surely find no fault with this. And she might possibly

find someone to talk to. She was so fond of talking, and it was a

perpetual regret to her that she could not understand the speech of the

Breton fishermen.

It was on the morning of the second day after her accident that this idea

presented itself. All the previous day she had sat soberly in a corner of

the little garden that overlooked the little _plage_ where none but

_bonnes_ and their charges ever passed. Nothing had happened all day

long, and she had been bored almost to tears. The beaming smiles of

Mademoiselle, who was thankful to have her within sight, had been no sort

of consolation to her, and on the second day she came rapidly to the

conclusion that she would die of _ennui_ if she attempted to endure it

any longer.

She did not arouse Mademoiselle's voluble protests by announcing her

decision. Mademoiselle was busy with the boys, and what was the good? She

was her own mistress, and felt in no way called upon to ask her

governess's leave.

Her foot was much better. The nurse had strapped it for her, and, beyond

some slight stiffness in walking, it caused her no pain. Her hair was

tied discreetly back with a black ribbon. It ought to have been plaited,

but as Mademoiselle had no time to bestow upon it and Chris herself

couldn't be bothered, it hung in glory below the confining ribbon to her

waist.

Whistling to Cinders, who was lying in the sunshine snapping at flies,

she rose from her chair in the shade, dropped the crochet with which

Mademoiselle had supplied her on the grass, and limped to the gate that

opened on to the _plage_.

At this juncture a rhythmical, unmistakable sound made her pause. A quick

gleam of pleasure shone in her blue eyes. She turned her head eagerly. A

troop of soldiers were approaching along the _plage_.

Sheer fun flashed into the girl's face. With a sudden swoop she caught up

the lazy Cinders.

"Now you are not to say anything," she cautioned him. "Only when I tell

you, you are to salute. And mind you do it properly!"

Cinders licked the animated face so near his own. When not drawn by his

one particular vice, he was always ready to enter into any little game

that his mistress might devise. He watched the oncoming soldiers with

interest, a slight frown between his brows.

The soldiers were interested also. Chris of the merry eyes was not a

spectacle to pass unheeding. She smiled upon them--there were about forty

of them--with the simplicity of a child.

Rhythmically the blue and red uniforms began to swing past. Their wearers

stared and grinned at the smiling little _Anglaise_ who was so naively

pleased to see them.

She raised an imperious hand. "Cinders, salute!" And into Cinders' ear

she whispered, "They are only French, chappie, but you mustn't mind."

And Cinders, quite unconcerned, obeyed his mistress's behest and lifted a

rigid paw to his head.

A murmur of appreciation ran through the ranks. The grins widened. One

boy, with bold admiration for the _petite Anglaise_ in his black eyes,

raised his hand abruptly and saluted in return. Every man who followed

did likewise, and Chris was enchanted. Mademoiselle Gautier would have

been horrified had she seen her frank nods of acknowledgment, but

mercifully Fate spared her this.

Behind the last line of marching men came a trim young officer. His sword

clanked at his heels. He swung along with a free swagger, head up,

shoulders back, eyes fixed straight before him. A gallant specimen was

he, for though of inconsiderable height, he was well made and obviously

of athletic build. His thoughts were evidently far away, his handsome,

boyish face so preoccupied that it had the look of a face in a picture,

patrician, aloof, immobile.

But a sudden glimpse of the girl at the gate--the child with the shining

hair--brought him back in a fraction of time, transformed him utterly.

Recognition, vivid surprise, undoubted pleasure, flashed over his face.

With an eager smile, he paused, clicked his heels together, saluted.

She extended an eager hand--her left; Cinders monopolized her right.

"Oh," she exclaimed, "you! I didn't know you were a soldier!"

He took the hand over the gate, stooped and kissed it. "But I am

delighted, mademoiselle!" he said.

Cinders was also delighted, and struggled with yelps of welcome to reach

him. He stood up, laughing, and patted the little creature's head.

"And the foot?" he questioned.

"Much better," said Chris. "I am going down to the shore presently. I

wish you could come too."

He smiled and shook his head, with a glance after his men retreating up

the hill towards the fort. "I wish it also, mademoiselle, but--"

"Couldn't you?" begged Chris. "This afternoon! Just for a little while!

There's only Cinders and me."

"_Et Mademoiselle la gouvernante--_"

"She is looking after the boys, and they are ill," Chris explained

cheerfully. "You might come. I'm wanting someone to talk to rather

badly."

The young officer hesitated. The blue eyes were very persuasive.

"I would ask you to come in to tea afterwards," she said, "only

Mademoiselle is so silly--quite cracked, in fact, on some points. But

that needn't prevent your coming down to the shore for a little to play

with Cinders and me. You will, won't you? Say you will!"

"I will, mademoiselle." His surrender was abrupt, and quite decisive.

She beamed upon him. "We will play at sand-pictures. You know that game,

I expect. One draws and the other has to guess what it's meant for. I

shall look out for you, then. Good-bye!"

She waved a careless hand, and he, still smiling, saluted again and

hastened after his men.

She was certainly unconventional, this English girl, quite superbly so.

She was also sublimely and completely irresistible.

Did she guess of the power that was hers as she turned back into the

little garden? Did some dim suggestion of a spell yet dormant present

itself as she stood thus on the threshold of her woman's kingdom?

Possibly, for her face was thoughtful, and remained so for quite ten

seconds after her new playmate's departure.

At the end of the ten seconds she kissed Cinders, with the remark,

"Chappie, that little Frenchman is a trump. I'm sure Jack would think

so." She and Jack Forest generally saw things in the same light, which

may have been the reason that Chris valued his opinion so highly.

She postponed her visit to the shore till the afternoon in consideration

of the fact that her sense of boredom had completely evaporated. After

all, what was there to be bored about? Life was quite interesting again.

The tide was on the ebb when she finally set forth. She directed her

steps towards a little patch of firm sand which she regarded as

peculiarly her own. The shore was deserted as usual. The _bonnes_

preferred the _plage_.

Would he be there before her, she wondered? Yes; almost at once she spied

him in the distance. He had discarded his uniform, in favour of white

linen. She regretted his preference somewhat, but admitted to herself

that linen might be cooler.

He was very busy with a swagger-cane, drawing in the sand, far too intent

to note her approach, and as he drew he hummed a madrigal in his soft

voice.

Noiselessly Chris drew near, a dancing imp of mischief in her eyes. She

wanted to get a glimpse of the work of art that he was elaborating with

such care before he discovered her. But his sensibilities were too subtle

for her. Quite suddenly he became aware of her and whizzed round.

He made her a low bow, but Chris waived the ceremony of greeting with

impatient curiosity. "I want to see what you are doing. I may look?"

"But certainly, mademoiselle."

She came eagerly forward and looked.

"Oh," she said, "is that the dragon? What an awesome creature! Is he

really like that? How splendidly you have done his scales! And what

frightful claws! Why"--she turned upon him--"you are an artist!"

He shrugged his shoulders, with his ready smile. "I am whatever

mademoiselle desires."

"How nice!" said Chris. "Well, go on being an artist, please. Draw

something else!"

"I think it is your turn now, mademoiselle," he said.

"Oh, but I'm no good at it," she protested. "I can't compete. You are

much too clever."

He laughed at that and began again.

She seated herself on a rock and watched him, deeply interested.

"How quick you are!" she murmured presently. "Whatever is it, I wonder? A

horse with a man on it! Ah, yes! St. George killing the dragon!

Excellent!" She clapped her hands. "It is a real picture. What a pity for

it to be washed away!"

"The destiny of all things, mademoiselle," he remarked, still elaborating

his work.

"Not all things!" she exclaimed. "Look at the Sphinx, and Cleopatra's

Needle, and--and a host of other things!"

"You think that they will endure for ever?" he said.

"For a very, very long while," she maintained.

"But for ever, mademoiselle?" He turned round to her, quite serious for

once. "There is only one thing that endures for ever," he said.

Chris frowned. "I don't want to think about it. It makes me feel giddy,"

she said. "Please go on drawing. The tide won't be up yet."

He turned back again instantly, looking quizzical. "_Alors_, shall we

build a barrier of stones and arrest the sea?" he suggested.

"Or weave a rope of sand," amended Chris.

CHAPTER IV

THE DIVINE MAGIC

When Chris went bathing it was her custom to slip a mackintosh over her

bathing costume and to run down to the shore thus equipped, discarding

the mackintosh before entering the water and leaving it in the charge of

Cinders.

Cinders never went treasure-hunting on these occasions, but invariably

sat bolt upright, brimful of importance, watching his mistress's

proceedings from afar with eager eyes and quivering nose. He would never

be persuaded to follow her, owing to a rooted objection to wetting his

feet. He was, as a rule, very patient; but if she kept him waiting beyond

the bounds of patience he howled in a heartrending fashion that always

brought her back.

Chris was a good swimmer, and had a boy's healthy love of the sea. Great

was her joy when her injured foot healed sufficiently for her to resume

the morning bathe. Mademoiselle Gautier's pleasure was not so keen, but

then--poor Mademoiselle!--who could expect it? Besides, what could she

know of the exquisite enjoyment of floating on a summer sea with the

summer sun in one's eyes and wave after gentle wave rocking one to drowsy

content?

The only drawback was the impossibility of diving, Chris longed for a

dive on that brilliant morning, longed for the headlong rush through

water, the greenness of it below the surface, the sparkling spray above.

If only she could have commandeered a boat! But that would have entailed

a boatman, and Mademoiselle would have been scandalized at the bare

suggestion.

"She would make me bathe in a coat and skirt and a hat if she could,"

reflected Chris, shaking the wet hair out of her eyes.

It was still early, not nine o'clock. The sea lay calm and empty all

about her. Was she really the only person in Valpré, she wondered, who

cared for a morning dip? She had swum some way from the little town, and

now found herself nearing the point where the rocks jutted far out to the

sea. The Magic Cave was at no great distance. She saw the darkness of it

and the water foaming white against the cliffs. Even in the morning

light it was an awesome spot, and she remembered how her friend had told

her that the dragon was there when the tide was up. With a timidity

half-actual, half-assumed, she began to swim back to her starting-point.

Half-way back, feeling tired, she allowed herself a rest in consideration

of the fact that this was the longest swim that she had ever undertaken.

Serenely she lay on the water with her hair floating about her. The

morning was perfect, the sea like a lake. Overhead sailed a gull with no

flap of wings. She wondered how he did it, and longed to do the same. It

must be very nice to be a gull.

Regretfully at length--for she was still feeling a little weary--she

resumed her leisurely journey towards the shore. As she did so she caught

the sound of oars grating in rowlocks. She turned her head, saw a boat

cutting through the water at a prodigious rate not twenty strokes from

her, caught a glimpse of its one rower, and without a second's hesitation

flung up an imperious arm.

"Stop!" she cried. "It's me!"

He ceased to row on the instant, but the boat shot on. She saw the

concern in his face as he brought it back. His black head shone wet in

the sunlight. He was evidently returning from a bathe himself.

"It's all right," smiled Chris. "Are you in a great hurry? I wondered if

you would tow me a little way. I've come too far, and I'm just a tiny bit

tired."

He brought the boat near, and shipped his oars. "I will row you to the

shore with pleasure, mademoiselle," he said.

"No, no," she said. "Just throw me a rope, that's all."

"But I have no rope, mademoiselle."

He leaned down to her as she swam alongside; but Chris still hung back,

with laughing eyes upraised. "You will capsize in a minute, and that

won't help either of us. Really, I don't think I will come out."

But she gave him her hand, nevertheless.

His fingers closed upon it in a warm clasp that seemed very sure of

itself. He smiled down at her. "I think otherwise, mademoiselle."

She found it impossible to resist him, and so yielded with characteristic

briskness of decision. "Very well, if you will let me dive from the boat

afterwards. Hold tight, _preux chevalier_! One--two--three!"

She came up to him out of the sea like a bird rising from the waves. A

moment he had her slim young body between his hands. Then she stepped

lightly upon the thwart, and he let her go.

And in that instant something happened: something that was like the

kindling of spirit into flame ran between them--a transforming magic that

only one knew for the Divine Miracle that changes the face of the whole

earth.

To the girl, with her wet hair all around her and her face of baby-like

innocence, it only meant that the sun shone more brightly and the sea was

more blue for the coming of her _preux chevalier_. And she sang, without

knowing why.

To the man it meant the sudden, primal tumult of all the deepest forces

of his nature; it meant the awakening of his soul, the birth of his

manhood.

He was young, barely twenty-two. Very early Ambition had called to him,

and he had followed with a single heart. He had never greatly cared for

social pleasures; he had been too absorbed to enjoy them. But now--in a

single moment--Ambition was dethroned. At the time, though his eyes were

open, he scarcely realized that the old supremacy had passed. Only long

afterwards did he ask himself if the death-knell of his success had begun

to toll on that golden morning; because a man cannot serve two masters.

"A penny for your thoughts!" laughed the elf in the stern, and he came to

himself to wonder how old she was. "No, never mind!" she added. "I

daresay they are not worth it, and I couldn't pay if they were."

Her eyes dwelt approvingly upon him as, with sleeves rolled above his

elbows, he began to pull at the oars. He was certainly very handsome. She

wondered that she had not noticed it before.

"Mademoiselle will not swim so far again all alone?" he suggested gently,

after a few steady strokes.

She looked at him frowningly. There was no faintest tinge of dignity

about her, only the careless effrontery of childhood and the grace that

is childhood's heritage.

"I am going to swim as far as the skyline some day," she announced

lightly, "and look over the edge of the world."

"_Mais, mademoiselle_--"

She held up an imperious hand. "That is one of the things you are not

allowed to say. You are never to talk French to me. It is holiday-time

when I am with you, and I never talk French in the holidays, except to

Mademoiselle, who won't listen to English. And won't you call me Chris?

Everyone else does."

"Chris?" he repeated after her very softly, his eyes upon her, tenderly

indulgent. "Ah! let it be Christine. I may call you that?"

"Of course," she returned practically. "My actual name is Christina, but

that's a detail. You can call me Christine if you like it best."

"I have another name for you," he said, with slight hesitation.

"Have you?" she asked with interest. "What is it? Do tell me!"

But he still hesitated. "It will not vex you? No?"

She flashed him her merriest smile. "Of course not. Why should it?"

He smiled back upon her, but there was the light of something deeper than

mirth in his eyes. "I call you my bird of Paradise," he said.

"How pretty!" said Chris. "Quite poetical, _preux chevalier_! You may go

on calling me that if you like, but it's too long for general use. And

what shall I call you? Tell me your Christian name."

"Bertrand, mademoiselle."

She held up an admonitory finger. "Chris!"

"Christine," he said, with his friendly smile.

She nodded. "Now don't forget! I think I shall call you Bertie because it

sounds more English. I'm going to dive now, so don't row any farther."

She sprang to her feet and stepped on to the thwart, where she stood

balancing, her arms above her head.

He waited motionless to see her go. But she remained poised for several

seconds, the sunlight full upon her slim, straight figure and bare,

upraised arms. Her hair, that had begun to dry, fluttered a little in the

breeze. The splendour of it almost dazzled the onlooker. He sat with

bated breath. She was like a young goddess, invoking the spirit of the

morning.

Suddenly she turned a laughing face over her shoulder. "Bertie!"

He pulled himself together. "Christine!" he answered, with a quick smile.

She laughed a little more. "Well done! I wondered if you would remember.

Will you do something for me?"

"All that you wish," he said.

"Well, when you come to tea with me in the Magic Cave on the tenth bring

a lantern. Will you?"

"But certainly," he said.

"I want to explore," said Chris. "I want to find out all the secrets

there are."

She turned back to contemplate the deep blue water at her feet, paused a

moment longer; then, "Good-bye, Bertie!" she cried, and was gone.

He saw the curve of her young body in the sunshine before she

disappeared, felt the spray splash upwards on his face; but he continued

to gaze at the spot where she had stood as a man spellbound, while every

pulse and every nerve throbbed with the thought of her and the mad, sweet

exultation that she had stirred to life within him. Child she might be,

but in that amazing moment he worshipped her as man was made to worship

woman in the beginning of the world.

CHAPTER V

THE BIRTHDAY TREAT

It was her birthday, and Chris scampered over the sands with Cinders

tugging at her skirt, singing as she ran. She had three good reasons for

being particularly happy that day--the first and foremost of these being

the long-anticipated adventure that lay before her; the second that her

two young brothers had improved so greatly in health that the tedious

hours of her solitude were very nearly over; and the third that a letter

from Jack, cousin and comrade, was tucked up her sleeve.

Jack's letters were infrequent and ever delightful. He always struck the

right note. He had written for her birthday to tell her that he had

bought a present for her to celebrate the memorable occasion, but that he

was reserving to himself the pleasure of offering it in person when they

should meet again, which happy event would, he believed, take place at no

distant date. In fact, Chris might see him any day now, since the

privilege of escorting her and her following back to England was to be

his, and he understood that the ruling power had decreed that their

return should not be postponed much longer.

She was by no means anxious to go; in fact, when the time came she would

be sorry. But she was not thinking of that to-day. It was not her custom

to dwell upon unwelcome things, and Jack had, moreover, made the prospect

attractive by the suggestion that they might possibly spend two or three

days in Paris on their return. Paris under Jack's auspices would be

paradise in Chris's estimation. She could imagine nothing more

enchanting.

So she and Cinders were in high spirits and prepared to enjoy the

birthday treat to the uttermost. She carried a small--very small--bag of

cakes which Mademoiselle had packed for her picnic--poor Mademoiselle,

who could not understand how any _demoiselle_ could prefer to eat her

food upon the beach. In fact, Chris had only carried the point because it

was her birthday, and naturally Mademoiselle had not been informed that

she had invited a guest to the meagre feast.

Chris, however, was quite content. With the serenity of childhood she was

sure there would be enough. She even told herself privately that it would

be the best birthday-party she had ever had. And Cinders was apparently

of the same opinion.

They raced nearly all the way to the rocks, spurred by the sight of a

familiar white figure awaiting them there. He came to meet them with his

customary courtesy, bare-headed, with shining eyes.

"Will you accept my good wishes?" he said, as he bent over her hand.

She laughed and thanked him. "I'm getting horribly old. Do you know I'm

seventeen? I shall have to put up my hair next year."

"I grieve to hear it," he protested.

"Never mind. It isn't next year yet. Have you remembered the lantern?

Where is it? No, I don't want any help, thank you. I balance best alone."

She was already skipping over the rocks with arms extended. He followed

her lightly, ready to give his hand at a moment's notice. But Chris was

very sure-footed, and though she allowed him to take her parcel, she

would not accept his assistance.

"I haven't brought anything to drink," she remarked presently, "I hope

you don't mind."

No, he minded nothing. Like herself, he was enjoying the treat to the

uttermost. He had not forgotten the lantern. It was waiting by the Magic

Cave. He begged that she would not hasten. The tide would not turn yet.

But Chris was in an impetuous mood. She wanted to start upon her

adventure without delay. Should they not explore first and have tea

after? It should be exactly as she wished, he assured her. Was it not her

_fête_?

But when at length she reached the shingle under the cliffs, she found a

surprise in store for her that made her change her mind.

A white napkin was spread daintily upon a flat-topped rock, and on this

were set a large pink and white cake and a box of _fondants_.

"Goodness!" ejaculated Chris.

"_Merveilleux_!" exclaimed the Frenchman.

She turned upon him. "Now, Bertie, you needn't pretend you are not at the

bottom of it, for I am old enough to know better. No," as he shrugged his

shoulders and spread out his hands, "it's not a bit of good doing that.

It doesn't deceive me in the least. I know you did it, and you're a

perfect dear, and it was sweet of you to think of it. It's the best

picnic I ever went to. And you even thought of tea," catching sight of a

small spirit-kettle that sang in a sheltered corner. "Let's have some at

once, shall we? I'm so thirsty."

He had forgotten nothing. From a basket he produced cups, saucers,

plates, knives, and arranged them on his improvised table.

Chris surveyed the cake with frank satisfaction. "What a mercy the gulls

didn't seize it while your back was turned! Do cut it, quick!"

"No, no! You will perform that ceremony," smiled Bertrand.

"Shall I? Oh, very well. I expect I shall do it very badly. What lovely

sweets! Did they come out of the Magic Cave? I hope they won't vanish

before we come to eat them."

"I thought that my bird of Paradise would like them," he said softly.

"Your bird of Paradise loves them," promptly returned Chris. "In fact, if

you ask me, I think she is inclined to be rather greedy. Please take the

kettle off. It's spluttering. You must make the tea if I'm to cut the

cake. And let's be quick, shall we? I believe it's going to rain!"

They were not very quick, however, for, as Chris herself presently

remarked, one couldn't scramble over such a cake as that. And the rain

came down in a sharp shower before they had finished, and drove them into

the Magic Cave for shelter.

The girl's young laughter echoed weirdly along the rocky walls as she

entered, and she turned with a slightly startled expression to make sure

that her companion was close to her.

He had paused to rescue the remains of the feast. "Quick!" she called to

him. "You will be drenched."

"_Je viens vite--vite_," he called back, and in a few seconds was at her

side.

"_Comment_!" he said. "You are afraid, no?"

"No," said Chris, colouring under his look of inquiry. "But it's horribly

eerie. Where is Cinders?"

A muffled bark from the depths of the cave answered her. Cinders was

obviously exploring on his own account, and believed himself to be on the

track of some quarry.

"Light the lantern--quick!" commanded Chris, her misgivings diverted into

another channel. "We mustn't lose him. Isn't it cold!"

She shivered in her light dress, but turned inwards resolutely.

"_Tenez_!" exclaimed the Frenchman, quick to catch her mood. "I will go

to find the good Cinders. He is not far."

"And leave me!" said Chris quickly.

"_Eh bien_! Let us remain here."

"And leave Cinders!" said Chris.

He smiled and shrugged his shoulders, then stooped without further words

and kindled his lamp.

The rain was still beating in fierce grey gusts over the sea and

pattering heavily upon the shingle. The waves broke with a sullen

roaring. Evidently a gale was rising.

Chris, with her face to the darkness of the cave, shivered again. Somehow

her spirit of adventure was dashed.

The flame of Bertrand's lamp shone vaguely inwards, revealing a narrow

passage that wound between rugged cliff-walls into darkness. The rock

gleamed black and shiny on all sides. Underfoot were stones of all shapes

and sizes, worn smooth by the sea.

"What a ghastly place!" whispered Chris, and something seemed to catch

the whisper and repeat it sibilantly a great many times as if learning it

off by heart.

"Permit me to precede you," said Bertrand. "You will find it not so

narrow in a moment. If you look behind you, you will see the sea as in

the frame of a picture. It is beautiful, is it not?"

His soft voice and casual words reassured her. She looked and admired,

though the sea was grey and the shore all blurred with rain.

"There will be a rainbow soon," he said. "See! It grows more light

already."

But he was looking at her as he spoke, though his glance fell directly

she turned towards him.

"Do you come here often?" she asked.

"But very often," he said.

"And what do you do here?"

"I will show you by and bye."

"Very well," she said eagerly. "Then we won't go any farther when we have

found Cinders."

But this last suggestion was not so easy of accomplishment. The darkness

had swallowed Cinders as completely as though the jaws of the dragon had

closed upon him.

"Where can he be?" said Chris, a quiver of distress in her voice.

"Have no fear! We will find him," Bertrand assured her.

He moved forward, holding the lantern to guide her. She kept very close

to him, especially when a curve in the passage hid the entrance behind

her. Her fancy for exploring was rapidly dwindling.

As he had told her, the passage soon widened. They emerged into a cave of

some size and considerable height.

"He will be here," announced Bertrand, with conviction.

But he was mistaken; Cinders was nowhere to be seen.

Chris looked around her wonderingly. This chamber in the rock was unlike

anything she had ever seen before. The very atmosphere seemed ominous,

like the air of a dungeon.

"And you come here often!" she said again incredulously.

He smiled, and, raising his lantern, pointed to a crevice just above his

head. "That is where I keep my magic."

Chris stood on tiptoe, and peered curiously. He reached up with his free

hand, and drew forward something that gave back dully the flare of the

lamp. She saw a black tin box that looked like a miniature safe.

He looked at her with a smile. "It contains my treasures--my black arts,"

he said, "and my future." He pushed it back again and turned. "Come! we

will find the naughty Cinders."

Chris was on the point of asking eager questions regarding this new

mystery, but before she could begin to utter them a long and piteous

howl--the howl of a lost dog--sent them helter-skelter from her mind.

"Oh, listen!" she cried. "That's Cinders!"

She sprang forward while the miserable sound was still echoing all about

them. "Oh, isn't it dreadful?" she gasped. "Do you think he is hurt?"

"No, no!" Bertrand hastened to reassure her. "He is only afraid. We will

go to him."

He stretched out a hand to her, and she put hers into it as naturally as

a child. Her chin was quivering, and her voice, when she tried to call to

the dog, broke down upon a sob.

"He will never know where we are because of the echoes," she said.

"He is not far," declared the Frenchman consolingly. "See, here is the

passage. They say that it was made by the contrabandists, but it leads to

nowhere; it has been blocked since many years. Do not fall on the stones;

they are very slippery."

A passage, even narrower than the first, led from the cave in which they

had been standing. Bertrand went first, his hand stretched out behind

him, still holding hers.

They had scrambled in this order about a dozen yards when again they

heard Cinders' cry for help--a pathetic yelping considerably farther away

than it had been before. The unlucky wanderer seemed to have lost his

head in the darkness and to be running hither and thither in wild dismay.

"What shall we do?" said Chris in tears. "I've never heard him cry like

that before."

Bertrand paused to listen. "The passage divides near here," he said.

"Courage, little one! We may find him at any moment. Will you then wait

while I search a little farther? I will leave you the lantern. I have

some matches."

"Oh, please don't leave me!" entreated Chris. "Why can't I come too?"

"It is too rough for you," he said. "And there are two passages. If I do

not find him in the one, without doubt he will return by the other to

you."

"You--you'd better take the lantern then," said Chris, with a gulp. "If I

am only going to stand still, I--I shan't want it."

"No, no--" he began.

But she insisted. "Yes, really. You will want it. I will wait for you

here, if you think it best. Only you will promise not to be long?"

"I promise," he said.

"Then be quick and go," she urged, drawing her hand from his. "We must

find him--we must."

But when his back was turned, and she saw him receding from her with the

light, she covered her face and trembled. It was the most horrible

adventure she had ever experienced.

For a long time she heard his footsteps echoing weirdly, but when they

died away at last and she stood alone in the utter, vault-like darkness,

her heart failed her. What if he also lost his way?

The darkness was terrible. It seemed to press upon her, to hurt her.

Through it came the faint sounds of trickling water from all directions

like tiny voices whispering together. Now and then something moved with a

small rustling. It might have been a lizard, a crab, or even a bat. But

Chris thought of snakes and stiffened to rigidity, scarcely daring to

breathe. The roar of the sea sounded remote and far, yet insistent also

as though it held a threat. And, above all, thick and hard and

agitatingly distinct, arose the throbbing of her frightened heart.

All the horrors she had ever heard or dreamt of passed through her brain

as she waited there, yet with a certain desperate courage she kept

herself from panic. Cinders might run against her at any moment--at any

moment. And even if not, even if she were indeed quite alone in that

awful place, she had heard it said that God was nearer to people in the

dark.

"O God," she whispered, "I am so frightened. Do bring them both back

soon."

After the small prayer she felt reassured. She touched the clammy wall on

each side of her, and essayed a tremulous whistle. It was a brave little

tune; she knew not whence it came till it suddenly flashed upon her that

she had heard it on Bertrand's lips on the day that he had drawn his

pictures in the sand. And that also renewed her courage. After all, what

had she to fear?

Over and over again she whistled it with growing confidence, improving

her memory each time, till suddenly in the middle of a bar there came the

rush and patter of feet, a yelp of sheer, exuberant delight, and Cinders,

the wanderer, wet, ecstatic, and quite shameless, leaped into her arms.

CHAPTER VI

THE SPELL

She hugged him to her heart in the darkness, all her fears swept away in

the immensity of her joy at his recovery.

"But, Cinders, how could you? How could you?" was the utmost reproof she

could find it in her heart to bestow upon the delinquent.

Cinders explained in his moist, eager way that it had been quite

unintentional, and that he was every whit as thankful to be back safe and

sound in her loving arms as she was to have him there. They discussed the

subject at length and forgave each other with considerable effusion,

eventually arriving at the conclusion that no blame attached to either.

And upon this arose the question, What of the Frenchman, Chris's _preux

chevalier_, who had so nobly adventured himself upon a fruitless quest?

"He promised he wouldn't be long," she reflected hopefully. "We shall

just have to wait till he turns up, that's all."

She would not suffer her rescued favourite to leave her arms again, and

they wiled away some time in the joy of reunion. But the minutes began to

drag more and more slowly, till at length anxiety came uppermost again.

Chris began to grow seriously uneasy. What could have happened to him?

Had he really lost his way? And if so what could she do?

Plainly nothing, but wait--wait--wait! And she was so tired of the

darkness; her eyes ached with it.

Her fears mustered afresh, fantastic fears this time. She began to see

green eyes glaring at her, to hear stealthy footfalls above the long,

deep roar of the sea, to feel the clammy presence of creatures unknown

and hostile. Cinders, too, weary of inaction, began to whimper, to lick

her face persuasively, and to suggest a move.

But Chris would not be persuaded. She could without doubt have groped her

way back to the cave where Bertrand kept his magic, and even thence to

the shore. But she did not for a moment contemplate such a proceeding.

She would have felt like a soldier deserting his post. Sooner or later

Bertrand would return and look for her here, and here he must find her.

But her fears were growing more vivid every moment, and when Cinders,

infected thereby, began to growl below his breath and to bristle under

her hand she became almost terrified.

Desperately she grappled with her trepidation and flung it from her, chid

Cinders for his foolish cowardice, and fell again to whistling Bertrand's

melody with all her might.

Clear and flutelike it echoed through the desolate tunnels, startlingly

distinct to her strained nerves. Sometimes the echoes seemed to mock her,

but she would not be dismayed. It might be a help to Bertrand, and it

certainly helped herself.

A long time passed, how long she had not the vaguest notion. Cinders,

grown tired of his own impatience, rested his chin on her shoulder and

went phlegmatically to sleep, secure in her assurance that there was

nothing whatever to be afraid of. Small creature though he was, her arms

ached from holding him, yet she would not let him go, he was too precious

for that; and each minute that passed, so she told herself, brought the

end of her vigil nearer.

Her heart was like lead within her, but she would not give way to

despair. He was bound to come in the end.

And come in the end he did, but not till her hopes had sunk so low that

when she heard the first faint sound of his returning feet she would not

believe her ears. But when Cinders heard it also, and raised his head to

growl, she suffered herself to be convinced. He really was coming at

last.

His progress was very slow, maddeningly slow it seemed to Chris. She

watched eagerly for the first sign of light from his lantern, but she

watched in vain. No faintest ray came to illumine the darkness. Surely it

was he; it could be none other!

Nearer and nearer came the footsteps, slow and groping. She listened till

she could bear it no longer; then "Bertrand!" she cried wildly. "Bertie!

Oh, is it you! Do speak!"

Instantly his voice came to her out of the darkness. "Yes, yes. It is me,

little one. I have had--an accident. I am desolated--afflicted; there are

no words that can say. And you awaiting me still, my little bird of

Paradise, singing so bravely in the darkness!"

"Whistling," corrected Chris; "I can't sing. What on earth has happened?

Are you hurt?"

"No, no! It is nothing--a _bagatelle_. Ah, but you have found the good

Cinders! I am rejoiced indeed!"

"Yes, he came to me--ages ago. It is you I have been waiting for all this

time. I thought you were never coming. At least, of course, I knew you

would come; but oh"--with a great sigh--"it has been a long time!"

"Ah, pardon me!" he said. "But why did you wait?"

"Of course I waited," said Chris. "I said I would."

"And you were not afraid? No?"

He was standing close to her now, and Cinders was wriggling to reach and

welcome him.

"Yes, a little," Chris admitted. "That's why I whistled. But it's all

right now. Do let us get out."

"Ah!" he said. "But I fear--"

"What?" she asked, with sudden misgiving.

He hesitated a moment, then, "The tide," he said.

"Bertie!" For the first time Chris's bravely sustained courage broke

down. She thrust out a clinging hand and clutched his arm. "Are we going

to be drowned--here--in the dark?" she said, gasping.

"No, no, no!" His reply was instant and reassuring. He took her hand and

held it. "It is not that. The water will not reach us. It is only that we

cannot return until the tide permit."

"Oh, well!" Chris's relief eclipsed her dismay. "That doesn't matter so

much," she said. "Let us get out of this horrid little tunnel, anyhow.

Oh, darling Cinders! He wants to kiss you. Do you mind?"

Bertrand laughed involuntarily. But she was droll, this English child!

Was it possible that she did not realize the seriousness of the dilemma

in which she found herself? Well, if not--he shrugged his shoulders--it

was not for him to enlighten her. As comrades in trouble they would

endure their incarceration as bravely as they might.

There was a faint spice of enjoyment in Chris's next remark: "Well, we

are all together, that's one thing, and we've got the cake for supper, if

we can only find it. Will you go first, please, so that I can hold on to

you. It will be nice to see the light again. What happened to the

lantern? Did you drop it?"

"I fell," he said. "I thought that I heard the good Cinders in front of

me, and I ran. I tripped and struck my head. It stunned me. _Après cela_,

I lay--_depuis longtemps_--insensible till I awoke and heard you singing

so far--so far away."

"Whistling," said Chris.

"I thought it was a bird at the dawn," he said, "flying high in the sky.

And I lay and listened."

"My dear _chevalier_, you wanted shaking," she interposed, with

pardonable severity. "Are you sure you are awake now? Oh, look! There is

a ray of light! How heavenly! But why didn't you relight the lantern?"

"It was broken," he said, "and useless. Also I found that I had only

three matches."

"I hope it will be a lesson to you," she rejoined, breathing a sigh of

relief as they emerged into the dim twilight of the cave. "Oh, isn't it

nice to see again! I feel as if I have been blindfolded for years."

"Poor little one!" he said. "Can you ever pardon me?"

They stood together in the deep gloom. They could hear the water lapping

the sides of the passage that led inwards from the shore.

"It must be knee-deep round the bend," said Chris. "Yes, I'll forgive

you, Bertie. I daresay it wasn't altogether your fault, and I expect your

head aches, doesn't it? I hope it isn't very bad. Is there a very big

lump? Let me feel."

She passed her hand over his forehead till her fingers encountered the

excrescence they sought.

"Oh, you poor boy, it's enormous!" she exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me

before? We must bathe it at once."

But Bertrand laughed and gently drew her hand away. "No--no! It is only a

_bagatelle_. Think no more of it, I beg. I merited it for my negligence.

Now, while there is still light, let us decide where you can with the

greatest convenience pass the night."

He was prepared for some measure of dismay, as he thus presented to her

the worst aspect of the catastrophe. But Chris remained serene. She was

rapidly recovering her spirits.

"Oh, yes," she said. "And poor Cinders too! We must find him a nice comfy

corner. He can lie on my skirt and keep me warm. Oh, do you know, I heard

such a funny story the other day about this very cave. I'll tell you

about it presently. But do find the cake first. I'm so hungry. We needn't

go to bed yet, need we? It must be quite early. What time do you think

the tide will let us get out? Poor Mademoiselle will think I'm drowned."

Chris's awe of the Magic Cave had evidently evaporated. The picnic mood

had returned to take its place, and Bertrand knew not whether to be more

astounded or relieved. He began to feel about for the basket containing

the remnants of their feast, while Chris with much volubility and not a

little merriment explained the situation to Cinders.

He calculated that they would be at liberty in the early hours of the

morning unless he tempted Fate a second time by climbing the cliff. But

Chris would not for a moment consider this proposition, and he was too

shaken by his recent fall to feel assured of success if he persisted.

Moreover, he seriously doubted if any boat could be brought within reach

of her while the tide remained high.

Plainly his only course was to follow her lead and make the best of

things. If she managed to extract any enjoyment from a most difficult

situation, so much the better. He could but do his utmost to encourage

this enviable frame of mind.

Chris, munching cheerfully in the twilight, had evidently quite forgotten

her woes. They went down the passage later as far as the bend, and looked

at the seething water, all green in the evening light, that held them

captive.

"I wish it wasn't going to be quite dark," she said when they returned.

"But if we hold hands and talk I shan't mind. That was a lovely cake of

yours, Bertie, I shall never forget it."

They found a ledge to sit on, Chris with her feet curled up; and Cinders,

grown sleepy after a generous meal, pressed against her. She protested

when Bertrand took off his coat and wrapped it round her, but he would

take no refusal. There was a penetrating dampness about the place that he

feared for her.

"If you sleep, you will feel it," he said.

"But I'm not going to sleep," declared Chris. "I never felt more

wide-awake in my life. I often do at bedtime. I hope you are not feeling

sleepy either, for I want to talk all night long."

Bertrand professed himself quite willing to listen. "You were going to

tell me something about this cave," he reminded her.

"Oh, yes." Chris swooped upon the subject eagerly. "Manon, the little

maid-of-all-work, was telling me. She said that no one ever comes here

because it is haunted. That's what made Cinders and me call it the Magic

Cave. She said that it was well known that no one ever came out the same

as they went in even in the daytime, and if any one were to spend the

night here they would be under a spell for the rest of their lives. Just

think of that, Bertie! Do you think we shall be? She didn't tell me what

the spell was. I expect it was something too bad to repeat. That's how

Cinders and I came to make up about the knight and the dragon. I hope the

dragon won't find us, don't you?"

She drew a little nearer to him and slipped a hand inside his arm. He

pressed it close to him,

"Have no fear, _chérie_. No evil can touch you while I am here."

"I should be terrified if you weren't," she told him frankly. "Did you

ever hear about the spell? Do you know what it means?"

"Yes," he said slowly; "I have heard. That was in part why I came here at

first, because I knew that I should be alone. I had need of solitude in

order to accomplish that which I had begun."

"Your magic?" queried Chris eagerly.

"Yes, little one, my magic. But"--he was smiling--"I have never remained

here for the night. And the charm, you say, is not so potent during the

day."

"You may be under it already," she said. "I wonder if you are."

"Ah!" Bertrand's tone was suddenly grave. "That also is possible."

"I wonder," she said again. "That may be what made you knock your head.

One never knows. But tell me about your magic. What is it? What do you

do?"

"I think," he said, "I calculate. And I build."

"What do you build?"

"It is a secret," he said.

"But you will tell me!"

"Why, Christine?"

"Because I do so want to know," she urged coaxingly. "And I can keep

secrets really. All English people can. Try me!" She thrust forward the

little finger of the hand that his arm held. "You must pinch it," she

explained, "as hard as you can. And if I don't even squeak you will know

I am to be trusted."

He took the finger thus heroically proffered, hesitated a second, then

put it softly to his lips. "I would trust you with my life," he said,

"with my honour, with all that I possess. Christine, I am an inventor,

and I am at the edge of a great discovery--a discovery that will make the

French artillery the greatest in the world."

"Goodness!" said Chris, with a gasp; then in haste, "Not--not greater

than ours surely!"

He turned to her impetuously in the darkness, her hands caught into his.

"Ah, you say that because you are English! And the English--_il faut que

les anglais soient toujours, toujours les premiers_--is it not so--always

and in all things? Yet consider! What is it--this national rivalry--this

strife for the supremacy? We laugh at it, you and I. We know what it is

worth."

But Chris was too young to laugh. "I don't quite like it," she said. "I'm

very sorry. Shall we talk of something else?"

But he still held her hands closely clasped. "Listen, Christine, my

little one! These things they pass. They are as a dream in the midst of a

great Reality. They are not the materials of which we weave our life.

Envy, ambition, success--what are they? Only a procession that marches

under the windows, and we look out above them, you and I, to the great

heaven and the sun; and"--something more than eagerness thrilled suddenly

in his voice--"we know that that is our life--the Spark Eternal that

nothing can ever quench."

He ceased abruptly. Cinders had stirred in his sleep, and she had drawn

away one of her hands to fondle him.

There fell short silence. Then, her voice a little doubtful, she spoke--

"You are not ambitious, then?"

He threw himself back against the rock, and with the movement a certain

tension went out of the atmosphere--a tension of which she had been

vaguely aware almost without knowing it.

"Ah, yes, I am ambitious," he said. "I am a builder. I have my work to

do. And I shall succeed. I shall make that which all the world will envy.

I shall be famous." He broke off to laugh exultantly. "Oh, it will be

good--good!" he said. "One does not often reach the summit while one is

yet young. There are times when it seems too wonderful to be true; and

yet I know--I know!"

"Is it a gun?" said Chris.

"Yes, _mignonne_, a gun! It is also a secret--thine and mine."

She uttered a faint sigh. "I wish it wasn't a gun, Bertie. If it were

only an aeroplane, or something that didn't hurt anyone! Of course, you

are a soldier and a Frenchman. I couldn't expect you to understand."

He laughed rather ruefully. "But I understand all. And you do not love

the French? No?"

"Not so very much," said Chris honestly. "Of course, I'm not being

personal. I liked you from the first."

"Ah! But really?" he said.

"Yes, really; and so did Cinders. He always knows when people are nice.

We shall miss you quite a lot when we go home."

"Quite a lot!" Bertrand repeated the phrase musingly as if questioning

with himself how much it might mean.

"Yes," she went on, "we were so lonely till you came." She broke off to

yawn. "Do you know, I'm beginning to get sleepy. Is it the spell, do you

think, or only the dark?"

"It is not the spell," he said, with conviction.

"No?" She moved uneasily. "I'm not very comfy," she remarked. "I wish I

were like Cinders. He can sleep in any position. It must be so

convenient."

"Will you, then, lean on my shoulder?" Bertrand suggested, with a touch

of diffidence.

She accepted the offer with alacrity. "Oh, yes, if you don't mind. It

would be better than nodding one's head off, as if one were in church,

wouldn't it? But what of you? Aren't you sleepy at all?"

"I have no desire to sleep," he told her gravely.

"Haven't you?" Chris's head descended promptly upon his shoulder. "I've

never been up all night before," she said. "It feels so funny. How the

sea roars! I wish it wouldn't. Bertie, you're sure there isn't such a

thing as a dragon really, aren't you?"

His hand closed fast upon hers. "I am quite sure, _chérie_."

"Thank you. That's nice," she murmured. "I haven't said my prayers. Do

you think it matters as I'm not going to bed? I really am tired."

"No, dear," he said. "_Le bon Dieu_ understands."

She moved her head a little. "Are you going to say yours, Bertie?"

"Perhaps, little one."

"Oh, that's all right," she said comfortably. "Good-night!"

"Good-night, _chérie_!"

His lips were close, so close to her forehead. He could even feel

her hair blow lightly against his face. But he remained rigid as a

sentry--watchful and silent and still.

Once during that long night she stirred in her sleep--stirred and nestled

closer to him with an inarticulate murmur; and he turned, moving for the

first time, and gathered her into his arms, holding her there like an

infant against his breast. Thereafter she slept a calm, unbroken slumber,

serenely unconscious of him and serenely content.

And the man sat motionless, with eyes wide to the darkness, grave and

reverent as the eyes of a warrior keeping his vigil on the eve of

knighthood. But his heart throbbed all night long like the beat of a drum

that calls men into action.

CHAPTER VII

IN THE CAUSE OF A WOMAN

To say that Mademoiselle Gautier was extremely anxious over her young

charge's disappearance would be to state the case with ludicrous

mildness. She was frantic, she was frenzied with anxiety.

All the evening and half the night she was literally dancing with

suspense, intermingled with fits of despair that reduced her, while they

lasted, to a state of absolute collapse. Before midnight all Valpré knew

that the little English _demoiselle_ was missing, and all Valpré scoured

the shore for her in vain. Some of the fishermen put out in boats and

continued the search by moonlight as near the rocks as it was possible to

go. But all to no purpose.

When the moon went down, they abandoned the quest; but at dawn, when the

tide was on the turn, they were out again, searching, searching for a

white, drowned face and a mass of red-brown hair. But the sea only

laughed in the sunlight and revealed no secrets.

Mademoiselle was quite prostrate by that time. She lay in a darkened room

with her head swathed in a black shawl, and called upon all the holy

saints to witness that she had always predicted this disaster.

Chris's two young brothers slept fitfully, waking now and then to assure

each other uneasily that of course she would turn up sooner or later

sound in wind and limb; she always did.

Noel, the younger, who was more or less in Chris's confidence, gave it as

his opinion that she had eloped with someone, that officer-chap she met

the other day, he'd lay a wager! But Maxwell poured contempt upon the

bare suggestion. Chris--elope with a Frenchman! He could as easily see

himself eloping with the Goat--a pet name that he and his brother had

bestowed upon Mademoiselle Gautier, and which fitted her rather well upon

occasion.

Three hours after sunrise the prodigal returned, lightfooted, gay of

mien. She was alone when she arrived, having firmly refused Bertrand's

escort farther then the end of the _plage_, lest poor Mademoiselle, who

hated men, should have hysterics. But the tale of her adventures had

preceded her. All Valpré knew what had happened, and watched her with

furtive curiosity. All Valpré knew that the _petite Anglaise_ had spent

the night in a cave with one of the officers from the fortress, and all

Valpré waited with bated breath, prepared to be duly scandalized.

But Chris was sublimely unconscious of this. Of course, she knew that

Mademoiselle would be shocked, but then Mademoiselle's feelings were so

extremely sensitive upon all points moral that it was almost impossible

to spend an hour in her company without in some fashion doing violence

to them. One simply tumbled over them, as it were, at every turn.

She expected and encountered the usual storm of reproach, but when

Mademoiselle proceeded to inform her that she was ruined for life, she

opened her blue eyes wide and barely suppressed a chuckle. She professed

penitence and even asked forgiveness for all the anxiety she had caused,

but she could not see that what had happened possessed the tragic

importance that Mademoiselle assigned to it. According to her distracted

governess, she had almost better have been drowned. For the life of her,

Chris couldn't see why.

When the tempest had somewhat spent itself, she retreated to her

brothers, to whom she poured out a full and animated account of the

night's happenings. They all agreed that Mademoiselle must have rats in

the upper story to make such a pother over the adventure, though Maxwell,

who held himself to be approaching years of discretion, gave it as his

opinion that the whole thing was a piece of bad luck and an experiment

not to be repeated.

"It's over anyhow," said Chris. "And we are none the worse, are we,

Cinders? So all's well that ends well, and now I'm going to get something

to eat."

For the next two days, Mademoiselle continuing to be hysterical at

intervals, Chris was exemplary in her behaviour. Perhaps even she had had

a surfeit of adventure for the time being. She certainly had no further

urgent desire to explore caves, magic or otherwise. She was also a little

tired, and inclined, after her excitement, to feel proportionately slack.

But early on the morning of the third day her strenuous nature reasserted

itself.

The sea and the sunshine awoke her together and she arose and dressed,

eager to revel in them both. She wondered if Bertrand were out in his

boat, and rather hoped she might encounter him.

Bertrand, however, was nowhere to be seen, and she proceeded to enjoy her

morning bathe in solitude. It was an enchanting day, and his absence did

not depress her. The tide was low, and she had to wade out a considerable

distance through the rippling waves; but she reached deep water at last

and proceeded forthwith to enjoy herself to her utmost capacity.

She spent a delicious half-hour thus, and it was with regret that she

finally returned to the shallows and began to wade back to the point

where Cinders, with her mackintosh, awaited her.

Just beyond this spot was a fair stretch of sand, and she was surprised

as she drew nearer to the shore to hear voices and to see a group of men

in the blue and red uniform of the garrison gathered upon what she had

come to regard as her own particular playground. She peered at them for

some seconds from beneath her hand, for the sun was in her eyes; and

suddenly a queer little thrill, that was not quite fear and not solely

excitement, ran through her. For all in a moment, ringing on the still

air of early morning, there came to her ears the clash of steel meeting

steel.

"Good gracious!" she said aloud. "It's a duel!"

A duel it undoubtedly was. She had a clear view of the whole scene,

distant but distinct, could even see the flash of the swords, the rapid

movements of the two combatants. It impressed her like a scene in a

theatre. She did not wholly grasp the reality of it, though her heart was

beating very fast.

Knee-deep, she stood in the sparkling water, outlined against the blue of

sky and sea, watching. Several seconds passed, during which they seemed

to be fighting with some ferocity. Then, obeying an impulse of which she

was scarcely aware, she moved on through the swishing waves, drawing

nearer at every step, hearing every instant more distinctly the ominous

clashing of the swords.

When only ankle-deep, she paused again. Perhaps, after all, it was only a

game--a fencing-match, a trial of skill! Of course, that must be it! Was

it in the least likely to be anything more serious? And yet something

within told her very decidedly that this was not so. A trial of skill it

might be, but it was being conducted in grim earnest.

She said to herself that she would slip on her mackintosh and go. But an

overwhelming desire to investigate a little further kept her dallying.

She had an ardent longing to see the faces of the antagonists. Later she

marvelled at her own temerity, but at the time this overmastering desire

was the only thing she knew.

She came out of the sea, reached her faithful attendant Cinders, slipped

on the mackintosh, and advanced nearer still to the little group of

officers upon the beach, buttoning it mechanically as she went.

Ah, she could see them now! One faced her--a mean-visaged man, fierce,

ferret-like, with glaring eyes and evil mouth. She hated him at sight,

instinctively, without question.

He was thrusting savagely at his opponent, whose back was towards her--a

slim, straight back familiar to her, so familiar that she recognized him

beyond all doubting, no longer needing to see his face. And yet,

involuntarily it seemed, she drew nearer.

He was fencing without impetuosity, yet with a precision that even to her

untrained perception expressed a most deadly concentration. Lithe and

active, supremely confident, he parried his enemy's attack, and the grace

of the man, combined with a certain mastery that was also in a fashion

familiar to her, attracted her irresistibly, held her spellbound. There

was nothing brutal about him, no hint of ferocity, only a finished

antagonism as flawless as his chivalry, a strength of self-suppression

that made him superb.

No one noticed Chris's proximity. All were too deeply engrossed with the

matter in hand. But suddenly Cinders, who loved law and order in all

things pertaining to the human race, scented combat in the air. It was

enough. Cinders would permit no brawling among his betters if he could by

any means prevent it. With tail cocked and every hair bristling, he

rushed into the fray, barking aggressively.

With a cry of dismay Chris rushed after him, and in that instant the man

facing her raised his eyes involuntarily and shifted his position. The

next instant he lunged frantically to recover himself, failed, and with a

violent exclamation received his adversary's point in his shoulder.

It all happened in a flash, so rapidly that it was over before either

Chris or Cinders had quite reached the scene. Bertrand whirled round

fiercely, sword in hand, anger turning to consternation in his eyes as he

realized the nature of the interruption.

Chris had a confused impression that the whole party were talking at once

and blaming her, while they buzzed round the wounded man, who lay back in

the arms of one of them and cursed volubly, whether Bertrand, Cinders,

or herself she never knew.

She had the presence of mind to snatch up her belligerent favourite, who

was snapping at the prostrate officer's legs; and then, for the first

time in her life, an overwhelming shyness descended upon her as the full

horror of her position presented itself.

"I couldn't help it, Bertie! Oh, Bertie, I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, in

an agony of contrition.

There was a very odd expression on Bertrand's face. She did not

understand it in the least, but thought he must be furious since he was

undoubtedly frowning. If this were the case, however, he displayed

admirable self-restraint, for he banished the frown almost immediately.

"Mademoiselle has been bathing, yes?" he questioned briskly. "But it is a

splendid morning for a swim. And le bon Cinders also! How he is droll, ce

bon Cinders!"

He snapped his fingers airily under the droll one's nose, and flashed his

sudden smile into her face of distress.

"_Eh bien_!" he said. "_L'affaire est finie_. Let us go."

He stuck his weapon into the sand and left it there. Then, without

waiting to don his coat, he turned and walked away with her with his

light, elastic swagger that speedily widened the distance between himself

and his vanquished foe.

Chris walked beside him in silence, Cinders still tucked under her arm.

She knew not what to say, having no faintest clue to his real attitude

towards her at that moment. He had ignored her apology so jauntily that

she could not venture to renew it.

She glanced at him after a little to ascertain whether smile or frown had

supervened. But both were gone. He looked back at her gravely, though

without reproof.

"Poor little one!" he said. "It frightened you, no?"

She drew a deep breath. "Oh, Bertie, what were you doing?"

"I was fighting," he said.

"But why? You might--you might have killed him! Perhaps you have!"

He stiffened slightly, and twisted one end of his small moustache. "I

think not," he said, faint regret in his voice.

Chris thought not too, judging by the clamour of invective which the

injured man had managed to pour forth. But for some reason she pressed

the point.

"But--just imagine--if you had!"

He shrugged his shoulders with extreme deliberation.

"_Alors_, Mademoiselle Christine, there would have been one _canaille_

the less in the world."

She was a little shocked at the cool rejoinder, yet could not somehow

feel that her _preux chevalier_ could be in the wrong.

"He might have killed you," she remarked after a moment, determined to

survey the matter from every standpoint. "I am sure he meant to."

He shrugged his shoulders again and laughed. "That is quite possible. And

you would have been sorry--a little--no?"

She raised her clear eyes to his. "You know I should have been

heart-broken," she said, with the utmost simplicity.

"But really?" he said.

"But really," she repeated, breaking into a smile. "Now do promise me

that you will never fight that horrid man again."

He spread out his hands. "How can I promise you such a thing! It is not

the fashion in France to suffer insults in silence."

"Did he insult you, then?"

Again he stiffened. "He insulted me--yes. And I, I struck him. _Après

cela_--" again the expressive shrug, and no more.

"But how did he insult you?" persisted Chris. "Couldn't you have just

turned your back, as one would in England?"

"No" Sternly he made reply. "I could not--turn my back."

"It's ever so much more dignified," she maintained.

The dark eyes flashed. "Pardon!" he said. "There are some insults upon

which no man, English or French, can with honour turn the back."

That fired her curiosity. "It was something pretty bad, then? What was

it, Bertie? Tell me!"

"I cannot tell you," he returned, quite courteously but with the utmost

firmness.

She glanced at him again speculatively, then, with shrewdness: "When men

fight duels," she said, "it's generally over either politics or--a woman.

Was it--politics, Bertie?"

He stopped. "It was not politics, Christine," he said.

"Then--" She paused, expectant.

His face contracted slightly. "Yes, it was--a woman. But I say nothing

more than that. We will speak of it--never again."

But this was very far from satisfying Chris. "Tell me at least about the

woman," she urged. "Is it--is it the girl you are going to marry?"

But he stood silent, looking at her again with that expression in his

eyes that had puzzled her before.

"Is it, Bertie?" she insisted.

"And if I tell you Yes?" he said at last.

She made a queer little gesture, the merest butterfly movement, and yet

it had in it the faintest suggestion of hurt surprise.

"And you never told me about her," she said.

He leaned swiftly towards her. There was a sudden glow on his olive face

that made him wonderfully handsome. "_Mignonne_!" he said eagerly, and

then as swiftly checked himself. "Ah, no, I will not say it! You do not

love the French."

"But I want to hear about your _fiancée_," she protested. "I can't think

why you haven't told me."

He had straightened himself again, and there was something rather

mournful in his look. "I have no _fiancée_, little one," he said.

"No?" Chris smiled all over her sunny face. She looked the merest child

standing before him wrapped in the mackintosh that flapped about her bare

ankles, the ruddy hair all loose about her back. "Then whatever made you

pretend you had?" she said.

He smiled back, half against his will, with the eloquent shrug that

generally served him where speech was awkward.

"And the woman you fought about?" she continued relentlessly.

"Mademoiselle Christine," he pleaded, "you ask of me the impossible. You

do not know what you ask."

"Don't be silly," said Chris imperiously. The matter had somehow become

of the first importance, and she had every intention of gaining her end.

"It isn't fair not to tell me now, unless," with sudden doubt, "it's

somebody whose acquaintance you are ashamed of."

He winced at that, and drew himself up so sharply that she thought for a

moment that he was about to turn on his heel and walk away. Then very

quietly he spoke.

"You will not understand, and yet you constrain me to speak.

Mademoiselle, I am without shame in this matter. It is true that I fought

in the cause of a woman, perhaps it would be more true if I said of a

child--one who has given me no more than her _camaraderie_, her

confidence, her friendship, so innocent and so amiable; but these things

are very precious to me, and that is why I cannot lightly speak of them.

You will not understand my words now, but perhaps some day it may be my

privilege to teach you their signification."

He stopped. Chris was gazing at him in amazement, her young face deeply

flushed.

"Do you mean me?" she asked at last. "You didn't--you couldn't--fight on

my account!"

He made her a grave bow. "I have told you," he said, "because otherwise

you would have thought ill of me. Now, with your permission, since there

is no more to say upon the subject, I will return to my friends."

He would have left her with the words, but she put out an impulsive hand.

"But, Bertie--"

He took the hand, looking straight into her eyes, all his formality

vanished at a breath. "Ask me no more, little one," he said. "You have

asked too much already. But you do not understand. Some day I will

explain all. Run home to _Mademoiselle la gouvernante_ now, and forget

all this. To-morrow we will play again together on the shore, draw the

pictures that you love, and weave anew our rope of sand."

He smiled as he said it, but the tenderness of his speech went deep into

the girl's heart. She suffered him to take leave of her almost in

silence. Those words of his had set vibrating in her some chord of

womanhood that none had ever touched before. It was true that she did not

understand, but she was nearer to understanding at that moment than she

had ever been before.

CHAPTER VIII

THE ENGLISHMAN

Chris returned quite soberly to the little house on the _plage_. The

morning's events had given her a good deal to think about. That any man

should deem it worth his while to fight a duel for her sake was a novel

idea that required a good deal of consideration. It was all very

difficult to understand, and she wished that Bertrand had told her more.

What could his adversary of the scowling brows have found to say about

her, she wondered? She had never so much as seen the man before. How had

he managed even to think anything unpleasant of her? Recalling Bertrand's

fiery eyes, she reflected that it must have been something very

objectionable indeed, and wondered how anyone could be so horrid.

These meditations lasted till she reached the garden gate, and here they

were put to instant and unceremonious flight, for little Noel hailed her

eagerly from the house with a cry of, "Hurry up, Chris! Hurry up! You're

wanted!"

Chris hastened in, to be met by her young brother, who was evidently in a

state of great excitement.

"Hurry up, I say!" he repeated. "My word, what a guy you look! We've just

had a wire from Jack. He will be in Paris this evening, and we are to

meet him there. We have got to catch the Paris express at Rennes, and the

train leaves here in two hours."

This was news indeed. Chris found herself plunged forthwith into such a

turmoil of preparation as drove all thought of the morning's events from

her mind.

Her brothers were overjoyed at the prospect of immediate departure;

Mademoiselle was scarcely less so; and Chris herself, infected by the

general atmosphere of satisfaction, entered into the fun of the thing

with a spirit fully equal to the occasion. The scramble to be ready was

such that not one of the party stopped to breathe during those two hours.

They bolted refreshments while they packed, talking at the tops of their

voices, and thoroughly enjoying the unwonted excitement. Mademoiselle was

more nearly genial than Chris had ever seen her. She did not even scold

her for taking an early dip. At the time Chris was too busy to wonder at

her forbearance; but she discovered the reason later, without the

preliminary of wondering, when she came to know that it was

Mademoiselle's urgent representations at headquarters regarding her own

delinquencies that had impelled this sudden summons.

The thought of meeting her cousin added zest to the situation. Though ten

years her senior, Jack Forest had long been the best chum she had--he was

best chum to a good many people.

Only when by strenuous effort they had managed to catch the one and only

train that could land them at Rennes in time for the Paris express, only

when the cliffs and the dear blue shore where she had idled so many hours

away were finally and completely left behind, did a sudden stab of

realization pierce Chris, while the quick words that her playmate of the

beach had uttered only that morning flashed torch-like through her brain.

Then and only then did she remember him, her _preux chevalier_, her

faithful friend and comrade, whose name she had never heard, whom she had

left without word or thought of farewell.

So crushing was her sense of loss, that for a few seconds she lost touch

with her surroundings, and sat dazed, white-faced, stricken, not so much

as asking herself what could be done. Then one of the boys shouted to her

to come and look at something they were passing, and with an effort she

jerked herself back to normal things.

Having recovered her balance, she managed to maintain a certain show of

indifference during the hours that followed, but she looked back upon

that journey to Paris later as one looks back upon a nightmare. It was

her first acquaintance with suffering in any form.

Jack Forest, big, square, and reliable, was waiting for them at the

terminus.

The two boys greeted him with much enthusiasm, but Chris suffered her own

greeting to be of a less boisterous character. Dear as the sight of him

was to her, it could not ease this new pain at her heart, and somehow she

found it impossible to muster even a show of gaiety any longer.

"Tired?" queried Jack, with her hand in his.

And she answered, "Yes, dreadfully," with a feeling that if he asked

anything further she would break down completely.

But Jack Forest was a young man of discretion. He smiled upon her and

said something about cakes for tea, after which he transferred his

attention to more pressing matters. Quite a strategist was Jack, though

very few gave him credit for so being.

Later, he sat down beside his forlorn little cousin in the great buzzing

vestibule of the hotel whither he had piloted the whole party, and gave

her tea, while he plied the boys with questions. But he never noticed

that she could not eat, or commented upon her evident weariness.

Mademoiselle did both, but he did not hear.

Chris would have gladly escaped the ordeal of dining in the great

_salle-à-manger_ that night, but she could muster no excuse for so doing.

At any other time it would have been an immense treat, and she dared not

let Jack think that it was otherwise with her to-night.

So they dined at length and elaborately, to Mademoiselle's keen

satisfaction, but she was aching all the while to slip away to bed and

cry her heart out in the darkness. She could not shake free from the

memory of the friend who would be waiting for her on the morrow, drawing

his pictures in the sand for the playfellow who would never see them--who

would never, in fact, be his playfellow again.

Returning to the vestibule after dinner to listen to the band was almost

more than she could bear; but still she could not frame an excuse, and

still Jack noticed nothing. He sent the boys to bed, but, as a matter of

course, she remained with Mademoiselle.

They found a seat under some palms, and Jack ordered coffee. He got on

very well with Mademoiselle as with the rest of the world, and there

seemed small prospect of an early retirement. But at this juncture poor

Chris began to get desperate. She had refused the coffee almost with

vehemence, and was on the point of an almost tearful entreaty to be

allowed to go to bed, when suddenly a quiet voice spoke close to her.

"Excuse me, Forest! I have been trying to catch your eye for the past ten

minutes. May I have the pleasure of an introduction?"

Chris glanced quickly round at the first deliberate syllable, and saw a

tall, grave-faced man of possibly thirty, standing at Jack's elbow.

Jack looked round too, and sprang impulsively to his feet. "You, Trevor!

I thought you were on the other side of the world. My dear chap, why on

earth didn't you speak before? You might have dined with us. Mademoiselle

Gautier, may I present my friend, Mr. Mordaunt?"

Mademoiselle acknowledged the introduction stiffly. She had no liking for

strange men.

But Chris looked at the new-comer with frank interest, forgetful for the

moment of her trouble. His smooth, clean-cut face attracted her. His grey

eyes were the most piercingly direct that she had ever encountered.

"My little cousin, Miss Wyndham," said Jack. "Chris, this is the greatest

newspaper man of the age. Join us, Mordaunt, won't you? I wish you had

come up sooner. Where were you hiding?"

Mordaunt smiled a little as he took a vacant chair by Chris's side. "I

have been quite as conspicuous as usual during the whole evening," he

said, "but you were too absorbed to notice me. Are you enjoying the

music, Miss Wyndham, or only watching the crowd?"

Chris did not know quite what to answer, since she had been doing

neither, but he passed on with the easy air of a man accustomed to fill

in conversational gaps.

"I believe I saw you arrive this evening. Haven't you got a small dog

with a turned-up nose? I thought so. Are you taking him for a holiday?

How do you propose to get him home again?"

That opened her lips, and quite successfully diverted her thoughts. "He

has had his holiday," she explained, "and we are taking him back. I don't

know in the least how we shall do it. Jack will have to manage it

somehow. Can you suggest anything? The authorities are so horribly strict

about dogs, and I couldn't let him go into quarantine. He would break his

heart long before he came out."

"A dog of character evidently!" The new acquaintance considered the

matter gravely. "When are you crossing?" he asked.

"To-morrow," said Jack. "I'm sorry, Chris, but I came off in a hurry, as

matters seemed urgent, and I have to be back by the end of the week."

"I wonder if you would care to entrust your dog to me," said Mordaunt. "I

am fairly well known. I think I could be relied upon with safety to

hoodwink the authorities."

He made the suggestion with a smile that warmed Chris's desolate heart.

Not till long afterwards did she know that this man had crossed the

Channel only that day, and that he proposed to re-cross it on the morrow

because of the trouble in a child's eyes that had moved him to

compassion.

They spent the next half-hour in an engrossing discussion as to the best

means to be adopted for Cinders' safe transit, and when Chris went to bed

at last she was so full of the scheme that she forgot after all to cry

herself to sleep over the thought of her _preux chevalier_ drawing his

sand-pictures in solitude.

She dreamed instead that he and the Englishman with the level, grey eyes

were fighting a duel that lasted interminably, neither giving ground,

till suddenly Bertrand plunged his sword into the earth and abruptly

walked away.

She tried to follow him, but could not, for something held her back. And

so presently he passed out of her sight, and turning, she found that the

Englishman had gone also, and she was alone.

Then she awoke, and knew it was a dream.

PART I

CHAPTER I

THE PRECIPICE

The angry yelling of a French mob rose outside the court--a low, ominous

roar, pierced here and there with individual execrations, and the

prisoner turned his head and listened. There was a suspicion of contempt

on his face, drawn though it was. What did they care for justice? It was

only the instinct to hunt the persecuted that urged them. Were he proved

innocent ten times over, they would hardly be convinced or cease from

their reviling.

But he knew that no proof of innocence would be forthcoming. He was

hedged around too completely by adverse circumstances for that.

Everything pointed to his guilt, and only he himself and one other knew

him to be the victim of a deliberate plot devised to compass his

destruction. He was too hopelessly enmeshed to extricate himself, and the

other--the only man in the world who could establish his innocence--was

the man who had set the snare.

Bertrand de Montville, gunner and genius, had faced this fact until he

was in a measure used to it. There was to be no escape for him. He, who

had dared to scale the heights of Olympus and had diced with the gods,

was to be hurled into the mire to rise therefrom no more for ever. He had

climbed so high; almost his feet had reached the summit. He had completed

his invention, and it had surpassed even his most sanguine hopes of

success. At four-and-twenty he had been acclaimed by his superiors as the

greatest artillery engineer of his time. His genius had won him a footing

that men more than twice his age, and far above him in military rank,

might have envied. He had been honoured by the highest.

And then at the very zenith of his prosperity had come his downfall. His

gun, the cherished invention that was to place the French artillery at

the head of the list, the child of his brain, his own peculiar treasure,

was discovered to have been purchased by another Government three months

before he had offered it to his own.

None but himself--so it was believed, so it was ultimately to be proved

to the satisfaction of impartial judges--had been in a position at that

time to betray the secret, for none but himself had then possessed it.

And a great storm of indignation went through the whole country over the

revelation.

Passionately but uselessly he protested his innocence. There were a few,

even among his judges, who secretly believed him; but the proof was

incontestable. Inch by inch he had been forced down from the heights that

he had so gallantly scaled, and now he was on the brink of the precipice,

no longer fighting, only waiting with the unflinching courage of the

French aristocrat to be hurled headlong into the abyss that yawned below.

The yelling of the crowd outside the court was only a detail of the

bitter process that was gradually compassing his condemnation. He knew he

was to be convicted. It was written in varying characters upon every

face; pity, severity, disgust--he met them on every hand. And so on this

the fifth and last day of his court-martial he confronted destiny--that

destiny that he had once so gaily dared--with closed lips and eyes that

revealed neither misery nor despair, only the indomitable pride of his

race. Do what they would to him, they would never quench that while life

remained. The worst indignity that man could inflict would provoke no

outcry here. He had protested his innocence in vain, and he had no proof

thereof to offer. It remained for him to face dishonour as an honourable

man, steady and undismayed. Doubtless there were those who would deem his

bearing brazen, but not his worst enemy should call him coward.

Across the court an Englishman, with keen grey eyes that took in every

detail, sat and sketched him--sketched the proud, fearless pose of the

man and the hard young face, with its faint, patrician smile. The sketch

was little more than outline, a few bold strokes; but the people in

England who saw it a couple of days later felt as if the artist had

deliberately lifted a curtain and shown to them a man's wrung soul. And

everyone who saw it said, "That man is innocent!"

Trevor Mordaunt said it himself many times that day before and after the

making of the sketch. He knew, as well as did the prisoner himself, that

there would be no acquittal. Almost from the commencement of the trial he

had known it. But he knew also that two at least of the judges were

disposed towards leniency, and upon this fact he based such slender hopes

as he entertained on the prisoner's behalf. As a fellow-correspondent--a

Frenchman--had remarked to him earlier in the trial, whatever the

verdict, they would hardly martyrize the man lest at a later date further

question as to his guilt should arise and all Europe be set bubbling anew

upon that much-discussed topic--French justice.

Mordaunt was of the same opinion; but, as he watched the young officer

throughout the whole of the day's proceedings, he came to the conclusion

that the verdict was everything in this man's estimation and the sentence

less than nothing. If he were condemned to be blown from his own gun, he

would face the ordeal unshrinking, almost with indifference. Deprived of

honour, what else was there in life?

So when the end came at last, and the inevitable verdict was pronounced,

Mordaunt shut his note-book with a feeling that there was no more to be

recorded.

As a matter of fact the sentence was not pronounced at the time, and only

transpired two days later, when it was officially made public--expulsion

from the army and incarceration in a French fortress for ten years.

"That, of course, will be commuted," said one who knew the probabilities

of the case to Mordaunt when the sentence was made known. "They will

release him _au secret_ in a few years and banish him from the country on

peril of arrest. They are bound to make an example of him, but they won't

keep it up. The verdict was not unanimous. And, above all, they won't

make a martyr of him now. The other _affaire_ is too recent."

Mordaunt agreed as to the likelihood of this, but he did not find it

particularly consolatory. He had seen the prisoner's face as he was

guarded through the surging, hostile crowd; and he knew that for Bertrand

de Montville the heavens had fallen.

An innocent man had been found guilty, and that was the end. He was

beyond the reach of any lenient influence now that justice had failed

him. They had pushed him over the edge of the precipice--this man who had

dared to climb so high; and in the hissings and groanings of the crowd he

heard the death-knell of his honour.

In silence he went down into the abyss. In silence he passed out of

Trevor Mordaunt's life. Only as he went, for one strange second, as

though drawn by some magnetic force, his eyes, dark and still, met those

of the Englishman, with his level, unfaltering scrutiny. No word or

outward sign passed between them. They were utter strangers; it was

unlikely that they would ever meet again. Only for that one second

something that was in the nature of a message went from one man's soul to

the other's. For that instant they were in communion, subtle but

curiously distinct.

And Bertrand de Montville went to his martyrdom with the knowledge that

one man--an Englishman--believed in him, while Trevor Mordaunt was aware

that he knew it, and was glad.

For he had studied human nature long enough to realize that even a

stranger's faith may make a supreme difference in the hour of a man's

most pressing need.