"I searched for it, but unfortunately I could not find it;" and a
shadow of worry crossed the marquis's face. For the first time in his
life he became conscious of incompleteness, of having missed something
in the flight. "I have told you the truth. I can say no more. I had
some hope that we might stand again upon the old footing."

"I shall not even visit your grave."

"I might turn over, it is true," a flare in the grey eyes. "And, after
all, I have a heart."

"Good heaven! Monsieur, your mind wanders!" the Chevalier exclaimed.

The marquis swept the salt from the table. The movement was not
impatient; rather resigned. "There is nothing more to be said. You
may go. Our paths shall not cross again."

The Chevalier bowed, turned, and walked toward the door through which
he had entered. He stopped at the threshold and looked back. The grey
eyes met grey eyes; but the son's burned with hate. The marquis,
listening, heard the soft pat of moccasined feet. He was alone. He
scowled, but not with anger. The chill of stone lay upon his flesh.

"It is my blood," he mused; "my blood and hers: mine the pride of the
brain, hers the pride of the heart. I have lost something; what is
it?" He slid forward in his chair, his head sunk between his shoulders.
Thus the governor, returning, found him.

As for the Chevalier, on leaving his father he had a vague recollection