“Mademoiselle, is this to be, when I have spent days--nay, I know not how many--of hunger and thirst and weariness in the desperate pursuit of one to whom I had vowed to offer those services of protection she lacked elsewhere?” Her pale eyes wondered at me. “Do you speak of the swineherd, monsieur?” she said. “I speak of Mademoiselle de Lâge.” “She is very secure and in good company. And whence comes your knowledge of, or interest in, her?” “Shall I tell you the story?” “Nay,” she said, with a sudden swerve to indifference; “but how does it concern me?” “Your uncle, mademoiselle!” “I have none that I own.” I was silent. She looked away from me, tapping a foot on the ground. It was all a fight between her bitterness and her pride. With a woman the first conquers. “Tell me,” she said in a moment, turning upon me, “do you come from him?” “I come from him.” “Commissioned to beg me to return?” “No, mademoiselle. Nor would I insult you with such a message.” “I can dispense with your interest in me, sir.” Again she averted her face. Decidedly she required some knowing. By-and-by she spoke again, without looking round and more gently-- “How does M. de Lâge bear the loss of--the loss of his treasures?” “He is, I fear, demented by it.” She gave a bad little laugh. “One who would sell his honour should at least keep his wits. Well, monsieur, I have nothing with which to reward your service of runner, so----” “A meal and a drink of water will repay me, mademoiselle.” “You can help yourself. Do you think I keep a larder in the forest?” “But you eat?” “My table is spread under the chestnut-trees and over the bushes. I leave its selection to my friends yonder. Sometimes they will present me with a truffle for feast-days.” I regarded the proud child with some quaintness of pity. This repelling manner was doubtless a mask over much unhappiness. “I have still something left in my satchel,” I said. “Will mademoiselle honour me by sharing it?” The light jumped in her eyes. “I do not know,” she said. “What is its nature?” “Only some raisins and a little hard bread.” “But bread, monsieur! That I have not tasted for long. We will go to the brook-side and sit down.” “And the herd?” “They will not wander. When they come to a fruitful ground they stay there till it is stripped.” She led the way round the hill to the little gushing stream and seated herself on a green stone. I would not even slake my thirst until I had spread my store on her lap. Then I lay down at her feet, like a dog, and waited for the fragments she could spare. She ate with relish, and took little notice of me. But presently she paused, in astonishment at herself. “I am eating up your dinner!” she cried. “It gives me more pleasure to watch than to share with you.” “Oh, fie!” she exclaimed. “But am I not a true swineherd?” She handed me the satchel. “It is all yours, mademoiselle.” “Eat!” she said peremptorily. “I will not touch another mouthful.”