message he had sought to elude for months past. A hopeless and ironical
misery shot through him. But he had humour too, and, with the taste of
the warm red drop in his mouth still, his tongue touched his lips
swiftly, and one hand grasping the arm of the chair, and the fingers of
the other dropping on the back of her hand lightly, he said in a quaint,
ironical tone:

"'Dead for a ducat!'"

When he saw the look of horror in her face, his eyes lifted almost gaily
to hers, as he continued:

"A little brandy, if you can get it, mademoiselle."

"Yes, yes. I'll get some for you--some whiskey!" she said, with
frightened, terribly eager eyes.

"Alcide always has some. Don't stir. Sit just where you are." She ran
out of the room swiftly--a light-footed, warm-spirited, dramatic little
thing, set off so garishly in the bodice with the plush trimming; but she
had a big heart, and the man knew it. It was the big-heartedness which
was the touch of the man in her that made her companionable to him.

He said to himself when she left him:

"What cursed luck!" And after a pause, he added: "Good-hearted little
body, how sorry she looked!" Then he settled back in his chair, his eyes
fixed upon her as she entered the room, eager, pale and solicitous. A
half-hour later they two were on their way to the farmhouse, the work of
despoiling going on in the Manor behind them. Ferrol walked with an