"Then--it is a legend--perhaps a superstition in our family--that any misfortune to us--_and to France_--is always preceded by two invariable omens. One of these dreaded signs is the abrupt appearance of L’Ombre in the waters of our moat--" She turned her head slowly and looked down over the parapet of the bridge.--"The other omen," she continued quietly, "is that the clocks in our house suddenly go wrong--all striking the same hour, no matter where the hands point, no matter what time it really is.... These things have always happened in our family, they say. I, myself, have never before witnessed them. But during the Vendée the clocks persisted in striking four times every hour. The Comte d’Aulnes mounted the scaffold at that hour; the Vicomte died under Charette at Fontenay at that hour.... L’Ombre appeared in the waters of the moat at four o’clock one afternoon. And then the clocks went wrong. "And all this happened again, they say, in 1870. L’Ombre appeared in the moat. Every clock continued to strike six, day after day for a whole week, until the battle of Sedan ended.... My grandfather died there with the light cavalry.... I am so afraid I am taxing your courtesy, Captain Neeland----" "I am intensely interested," he repeated, watching the lovely, sensitive face which pride and dread of misinterpretation had slightly flushed again. "It is only to explain--perhaps to justify myself for writing--for asking that an officer be sent here from Lorient for a few days----" "I understand, Countess." "Thank you.... Had it been merely for myself--for my own fears--my personal safety, I should not have written. But our misfortunes seem to be coincident with my country’s mishaps.... So I thought--if they sent an officer who would be kind enough to understand----" "I understand ... L’Ombre has appeared in the moat again, has it not?" "Yes, it came a week ago, suddenly, at five o’clock in the afternoon." "And--the clocks?" "For a week they have been all wrong." "What hour do they strike?" he asked curiously. "Five." "No matter where the hands point?" "No matter. I have tried to regulate them. I have done everything I could do. But they continue to strike five every hour of the day and night.... I have"--a pale smile touched her lips--"I have been a little wakeful--perhaps a trifle uneasy--on my country’s account. You understand...." Pride and courage had permitted her no more than uneasiness, it seemed. Or if fear had threatened her there in her lonely bedroom through the still watches of the night, she desired him to understand that her solicitude was for France, not for any daughter of the race whose name she bore. The simplicity and directness of her amazing narrative had held his respect and attention; there could be no doubt that she implicitly believed what she told him.