"You have named it?" he asked. "You have named--our child?" Still she did not answer. "It were not improper," he continued, smilingly, half-musingly, "for a father to venture a suggestion anent a name.... _Eh bien_, then. I should wish that the baby be known as" he stopped for a moment, thinking, the while lightly tapping booted leg with the tip of his crop. "I should suggest," he repeated, "calling her Rien. It is an appropriate name, Rien. It is not a bad name; in fact, it is rather a pretty name.... Rien.... Rien.... Rien...." He repeated it several times. "Yes, it seems to me that that is an excellent name.... We will, then, consider her name Rien." He laughed once more. "Because of certain reasons," he went on, "I'm afraid that my paternal duties must cease with the naming of our child." He turned to the dying woman upon the bed. "Bon voyage, mam'selle--eh, pardon, madame," he said. He lifted his hat, bowing. To the old woman he turned. "To you--" he began; she interrupted. "Her eyes, they will be her mother's," she mumbled, sullenly. "Which will be well," he smiled. "Her mother had beautiful eyes-- wonderful eyes." "More wonderful than you knew," muttered the old woman. "Had you come a day sooner--" Still he smiled. "But I didn't," he replied; and then nodding toward the whimpering thing that the woman held: "You should guard it well. There is of the best blood of France in its veins." His lips curled, whimsically. "'Tis strange, that, _n'es-ce pas_? In that small piece of carrion which you hold there upon your knees runs the blood of three kings." Again he laughed, musically. He turned. He had not seen her stoop. The long-bladed knife struck him in the arm, piercing flesh and vein and sinew, sticking there. Slowly he plucked it forth, and turned to her, still smiling. "You are old, madame. Do not apologize; it was not your fault." He took the knife delicately by the tip and with a little flip sent it spinning through the air and over the edge of the cliff. And he was gone. The woman, shrivelled, gray-haired, sinking back in her chair, sat silent. The puling thing upon her knees whimpered. The dying woman upon the rude bed of rope and rush moaned. And that was all. [Illustration] CHAPTER THREE. TWO BOYS AND A GIRL.