They were mounting this slight eminence when, without warning, Gilbert’s mare shied violently at a clump of bracken. “What is it?” queried Louis, quieting Saladin. Gilbert pulled up. “I will see,” he said, tossing his reins to his cousin, and, dismounting, went back to the fern. “It is a woman—dead, I fear,” he said over his shoulder. He went round to the other side of the clump, stooped, and gave a violent exclamation. Roused by his tone, Louis flung himself off Saladin, and, dragging the two horses after him, came to the place. He saw first the skirt of a green amazone, then the whole slim length of the body of a woman, a young woman, lying on the slope, one arm flung wide into the fern, the other crooked under her head. Only the breast of the amazone was darkly stained. His eyes travelled to her face. . . . “O my God!” he said softly, and the reins fell from his fingers. Gilbert slowly raised himself, and took off his hat, his eyes, too, riveted on the dead face of her who had been Célie d’Espaze. There was a faint smile on her discoloured lips. A tress of the bright brown hair was caught in the dead bracken; a ruby glowed on the lace at her throat; but for her look she seemed cast there to sleep. The cold horror of the moment was broken by no words; it lasted like a spell while Louis, baring his head, sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands. Gilbert did not look at him. The gold and white room, the white dress and the gold couch, and the voice saying, “Reflect that in this changing world I may some day be needing help from you. . . . Next time that you are in Paris, my friend . . .” Instead of these he stood with Louis by the body of the “adventuress” with whose society he had not long ago taunted him. If only he had not said that. . . . Louis raised his head at last, and taking the gauntleted hand that lay near him in the bracken he kissed it reverently and laid it back again. Then he turned a grey face on his cousin. “God knows how she came by this,” he said hoarsely. “We cannot leave her here.” “She must have died instantly,” said Gilbert, half to himself. “I will go back and send a party. You will stay by her?” Louis nodded without speaking, and Gilbert left him kneeling there. They buried her that evening. In her grave-clothes she was more than ever the nun of Gilbert’s first impression. Where Louis spent the night Château-Foix did not enquire, but it was not in their room.