I thought then, as her beautiful eyes looked up at me smiling, that she was incomparable, that I loved her above all others--I felt sure of it. "And why do you hunt bears?" I inquired. "I do not know. I think it is because they are so--so beautiful, so amiable!" she answered. "And such good companions." "Yes; they never embarrass you," she went on. "You never feel at loss for a word." "I fear you do not know bears." "Dieu! better than men. Voila!" she exclaimed, touching me with the end of her parasol. "You are not so terrible. I do not think you would bite." "No; I have never bitten anything but--but bread and doughnuts, or something of that sort." "Come, I desire to intimidate you. Won't you please be afraid of me? Indeed, I can be very terrible. See! I have sharp teeth." She turned with a playful growl, and parting her crimson lips, showed them to me--white and shapely, and as even as if they had been wrought of ivory. She knew they were beautiful, the vixen. "You terrify me. I have a mind to run," I said, backing off, "Please do not run," she answered quickly. "I should be afraid that--that--" She hesitated a moment, stirring the moss with one dainty foot. "That you might not return," she added, smiling as she looked up at me. "Then--then perhaps it will do as well if I climb a tree." "No, no; I wish to talk with you." "Ma'm'selle, you honor me," I said. "And dishonor myself, I presume, with so much boldness," she went on. "It is only that I have something to say; and you know when a woman has something to--to say--" "It is a fool that does not listen if she be as fair as you," I put in. "You are--well, I shall not say what I think of you, for fear--for fear of giving offence," said she, blushing as she spoke. "Do you like the life of a soldier?" "Very much, and especially when I am wounded, with such excellent care and company." "But your side--it was so horribly torn. I did feel very sorry--indeed I did. You will go again to the war?" "Unless--unless--Ah, yes, ma'm'selle, I shall go again to the war," I stammered, going to the brink of confession, only to back away from it, as the blood came hot to my cheeks. She broke a tiny bough and began stripping its leaves. "Tell me, do you love the baroness?" she inquired as she whipped a swaying bush of brier. The question amazed me. I laughed nervously. "I respect, I admire the good woman--she would make an excellent mother," was my answer. "Well spoken!" she said, clapping her hands. "I thought you were a fool. I did not know whether you were to blame or--or the Creator." "Or the baroness," I added, laughing. "Well," said she, with a pretty shrug, "is there not a man for every woman? The baroness she thinks she is irresistible. She has money. She would like to buy you for a plaything--to marry you. But I say beware. She is more terrible than the keeper of the Bastile. And you--you are too young!"