'Friends for the night's bivouac.' Those were your words."

Now was here a woman who felt deeply and talked lightly? I had not met
such. "It is wise," I rejoined, "but difficult." I took the crayon
from my pocket and began drawing faces on the white limestone rock at
my side. I drew idly and scowled at my work. "The Indians can do
better," I lamented. "Was your cousin, Benjamin Starling, clever with
his pencil, mademoiselle?"

She drew back, but she answered me fairly. "Very clever," she said
quietly. "It was a talent. Why do you ask, monsieur?"

"I find myself thinking of him." I dropped the crayon. "Listen,
mademoiselle. I must ask you some questions. Believe me, I have
reasons. Now as to your cousin,--is he alive?"

She looked off at the water. "I do not know, monsieur."

She had become another woman. I hated Benjamin Starling that his name
could so instantly sap the life from her tone.

"Please look at me," I begged irritably. "Mademoiselle, I think that I
must ask you to tell me more,--to tell me much more."

She rose. "Is it necessary?"

I bowed. "Else I should not ask it. Please sit, mademoiselle."

She sat where my hand pointed. "You know that we were Tories," she
began, in the quiet monotone I had learned to expect from her under