The lifeless tone of his thanks appeared to reawaken his hostess’s suspicions. She caught up the candle and held it to the level of his face. “You are sure that you are not ill, you?” she asked sharply. The fancy crossed Gilbert’s mind that she was more apprehensive than solicitous about his state of health, and he answered with a grim feeling approaching amusement that he was perfectly well, and turned to go. But at the doorway he stopped and bent a long look on the candle-lit bed, drawn by the very attraction of what his survey cost him. Then he went down the stairs and out of the farmhouse, to carry his agony back to the place where it had its birth. * * * * * * Very early next morning Madame Geffroi’s voice floated up the ladder. Gilbert raised himself from where he lay face downwards in the hay and descended into the shed below. “Your brother is better,” said the lady. “He is sleeping quietly. But no—you shall not see him yet. Later in the day, perhaps. And see that you do not show yourself to-day; it is possible that they may search for you.” “Then, Madame,” broke in the Marquis hastily, “we must go. I cannot think of exposing you——” “Bah!” returned his hostess with infinite scorn. “Do you think I shall let that young man out of his bed? He could not stand if I did. And I should like to see those gentry try to search my house! But they may come prowling round, so be careful. If they should come here you can hide in the hay—or, wait a moment, there is a place up in the rafters where no one will ever think of looking. Here is plenty of food—you did not take any last night.” With this somewhat casual recital of precautions she tendered him a basket and made off. The inadequacy of the former scarcely struck the Marquis, so little did the idea of being taken seen to matter. He climbed back to the loft and threw himself down in his former position. As hour succeeded hour, the stupor which, in spite of the most active suffering, had held his brain all through the sleepless night began to dissolve. “He trusts us! he trusts us!” Yes, he had trusted them indeed, and with a trust so profound as to be unconscious of its own existence. “He trusts us!” Which of them had said that to the other? It was round these words that the stupor, losing its hold, crystallised into a fierce and absorbing resolution. By no word or deed of his should Louis know that he was aware of his treachery—until the day that he chose. Louis, too, in his turn, should be tricked, gulled, befooled. It should be a part—a small part—of his revenge; though indeed there was in his resolve less of the lust of vengeance than of the instinctive self-defence of his own unspeakably lacerated pride.