She had only just the time to arrange her gown in its most becoming folds, to decide on the exact position of the sheaf of bluebells and of her outstretched arm, and to assure herself that the sunlight was, indeed, playing with her hair and with her toes in just the manner she desired. Then she closed her eyes and waited. There is nothing on earth more difficult or more tantalizing to do than to wait with eyes closed while something is going on around which one would give the world to see. Twenty times and more in the space of a few minutes did Fernande positively ache with the longing to open her eyes. She heard the heavy, unequal step approaching, she heard the smothered exclamation which proclaimed impatience at seeing someone in possession of the lonely spot ... she heard the stealthy approach of her quarry--the pause not a step or two away from her, and almost felt the hot breath which came and went from his nostrils as he stooped in order to look at her. But she had the strength of mind to wait until she was quite sure that dark, scowling, inquiring eyes were close to her face; then she opened her own. At once the man drew himself up and retreated as if the glance from those blue eyes had struck him in the face. Yet there was nothing very formidable in the pathetic, white-clad figure reclining there upon the moss, and with its poor injured foot swathed in a half-dried bit of gossamer rag. Fernande watched the retreating ogre until he had fairly turned to go; then she said in a quaking voice, and with a sigh that would have rent a heart of stone: "Oh, I'm in such pain!" Then she closed her eyes again. There was a pause, during which even birds and squirrels seemed to have passed the word "Silence!" round. Only a slight flutter among the young leaves overhead disturbed the perfect stillness of this fateful moment. Fernande's entire hope of success rested on the efficacy of her last heartrending appeal. For a second or two the ogre appeared to hesitate. Then a halting voice broke the spell of expectancy which had fallen over the woods. "Can I be of any help?" And the dragging, heavy footstep was once more audible as it approached quite close to her. Again Fernande sighed, more woefully than before. "Alas!" she moaned, "I am utterly helpless. But...." She raised herself upon her elbow, looked round her in perfect bewilderment, passed her hand once or twice over her forehead, and finally made up her mind to allow her blue eyes to rest on de Maurel. "M. de Maurel!" she murmured, with the most profound astonishment that human voice can possibly express. "Mademoiselle," he responded with obvious embarrassment, "I chanced to be passing by.... You seem to be in pain.... Is there aught that I can do?" "There is, Monsieur," she replied unblushingly. "I fear that I have broken my ankle. I am in great pain, and very far from home. My name is Fernande de Courson...." "I know that, Mademoiselle," he broke in simply.