I flushed at the words, but dared not look at her. I must go, or I should be upon my knees before her, a beggar for her slightest favor. I glanced at Fronsac, who stood with folded arms, frowning deeply. “Adieu, then, Madame,” I said. She held out her hand to me. I knelt and kissed it, not daring to look up into her face; remembering, with a great rush of tenderness, the times I had already kissed it. I was aflame to snatch her to me, to assert my claim to her, to kiss her arms, her neck, her lips, to ask her if she had forgot that scene in the moonlight---- “M. de Fronsac,” she was saying, “listen--I have a little story I wish you to hear. You, M. de Marsan, remain where you are. There was once a girl taken suddenly from a convent, where she had spent her whole life, and planted in the midst of a turbulent court. The ruler of the court looked on her with lustful eyes, yet had the honor to offer her his title. But she heard strange tales of him which frightened her, and at last she saw another, nearer her own age, who seemed to her the very rose of gallantry and courage. So she put away from her all thought of the other, and at last--one night--her lover claimed her. But the other lay dying. He was lord of wide lands and of a proud title. These, he said, he wanted her to have, even at this last moment, when their marriage must be one unconsummated. And as she knelt beside his bed, listening to him in patience, for she remembered he was dying, of a sudden the thought came to her--why not take these things for her lover? Oh, it would be a joy to give him place and power--more than her mere self! Why not give him these as well?” She paused for a moment--her voice was trembling so. I could not look up--I dared not, lest my eyes be blinded. “You will pardon me, M. de Fronsac, if I tell the story very badly,” she said, with a little, unsteady laugh. “But it moves me greatly, for her lover did not understand. He fancied she desired place and wealth for herself, when it was alone for him. He did not comprehend the greatness of her love. He was stricken with fever--and as, night after night, she listened to him in his delirium, she knew that it was her fault--that she had driven him mad--and her heart grew cold with fear that he might not get well. But he did get well--he came to her to say good-by--he closed his eyes to all she had intended, to all she let him see. He wrapped himself about with his pride, which he fancied had been injured, and would not look at her. What think you of such a man, M. de Fronsac?” “I think him a fool!” said Fronsac savagely. But I did not heed him. I was looking up, up into her eyes. And I read there the same story they had told me once before. There could be no mistaking! “Claire!” I cried,--“Claire!” And she, in her great love and strength, stooped and raised me to the seat beside her. THE END A CHILD OF THE NIGHT Copyright, 1901, by Burton E. Stevenson CHAPTER I AN ENCOUNTER IN THE STREETS