extravagant dream. The marquis was unreal; yonder was a vapor assuming
the form of a woman. He stared patiently, waiting for the dream to
dissolve.

He was staring into a beautiful face, lively, yet possessing that
unmarred serenity which the Greeks gave to their female statues; but it
was warm as living flesh is warm. Every feature expressed nobility in
the catholic sense of the word; the proud, delicate nose, the amiable,
curving mouth, the firm chin and graceful throat. In the candle-light
the skin had that creamy pallor of porcelain held between the eye and
the sun. The hair alone would have been a glory even to a Helen. It
could be likened to no color other than that russet gold which lines
the chestnut bur. The eyes were of that changing amber of woodland
pools in autumn; and a soul lurked in them, a brave, merry soul, more
given to song and laughter than to tears. The child of Venus had taken
up his abode in this woman's heart; for to see her was to love her, and
to love her was to despair.

The tableau lasted several seconds. She was first to recover; being a
woman, her mind moved swifter.

"Do I wear the shield of Perseus, and is the head of Medusa thereupon?
Truly, I have turned Monsieur du Cévennes into stone!"

"Diane, can it be you?" he gasped, seeing that the beautiful vision did
not vanish into thin air.

"Diane?" she repeated, moving toward the mantel. "No; not Diane. I am
no longer the huntress; I flee. Call me Daphne."