“A moonbeam or a breath, above thine eyes I bow, Silent, unseen, But not, ah! not unknown”— “Wait!” she interrupted, in a voice that sounded a little faint. “Wait! I want to hear them all, monsieur; but not to-night. You shall say them to me to-morrow. I must not stay to listen to them to-night. I am a little—cold, I think! Help me out, please!” And she rashly gave me her hand. Now, it was my honest intention at that instant to do just her bidding and no more; but when I touched her fingers reason and judgment flowed from me. I bowed my head over them to the edge of the hammock, and with both my hands crushed them to my lips. She sank back upon her cushion, with a little catching of her breath. After a few moments I raised my head—but with no speech and with no set purpose—and looked at her face. It was very grave, and curiously troubled, but I detected no reproach in the great eyes that met mine. A fierce impulse seized me to gather her in my arms—but I durst not, and my eyes dropped as I thought of it. By chance they rested upon her feet—upon the tiny, quill-worked, beaded white moccasins, demurely crossed, the one over the other. Her skirt was so closely gathered about her ankles that just an inch or two of one arched instep was visible over the edge of the low-cut moccasin. Before I myself could realize what I was about to do, or half the boldness of the act, in a passion that was all worship I threw myself down beside her feet and kissed them. It was for an instant only that my daring so prevailed. Then she suddenly slipped away. In a breathless confusion I sprang to my feet, and found her standing erect at the other side of the hammock. Her eyes blazed upon me; but one small hand was at her throat, as if she found it hard to speak. “How could you dare?” she panted. “What right did I give you? What right did I ever give you?” I leaned against the pillar that supported one end of the hammock. “Forgive me! I could not help it. I have loved you, worshipped you, so long!” I said in a very low voice. “How dare you speak so?” she cried. “You forget that”— “No, I remember!” I interrupted doggedly. “I forget nothing. You do not love him. You are mine.” “Oh!” she gasped, lifting both hands sharply to her face and dropping them at once. “I shall never trust you again.” And in a moment she had flashed past me, with a sob, and disappeared into the house. Chapter IX In Sleep a King, but Waking, no such Matter De Lamourie himself showed me to my room, a low chamber under the eaves, very plainly furnished. In the houses of the few Acadian gentry there was little of the luxury to be found in the seigneurial mansions of the St. Lawrence. In the De Lamourie house, for example, there were but two serving-maids, with one man to work the little farm.