D'ri came soon with a worried look, his trousers caught on his boot-tops, an old felt hat in his hand. Somehow he and his hat were as king and coronal in their mutual fitness; if he lost one, he swapped for another of about the same shade and shape. His brows were lifted, his eyes wide with watchful timidity. The count had opened a leather case and taken out of it a shiny disk of silver. He stepped to D'ri, and fastened it upon his waistcoat. "'Pour la valeur eprouvee--de l'Empereur,'" said he, reading the inscription as he clapped him on the shoulder. "It was given to a soldier for bravery at Austerlitz by the great Napoleon," said he. "And, God rest him! the soldier he died of his wounds. And to me he have left the medal in trust for some man, the most brave, intrepid, honorable. M'sieur D'ri, I have the pleasure to put it where it belong." D'ri shifted his weight, looking down at the medal and blushing like a boy. "Much obleeged," he said presently. "Dunno but mebbe I better put it 'n my wallet. 'Fraid I 'll lose it off o' there." He threw at me a glance of inquiry. "No," said I, "do not bury your honors in a wallet." He bowed stiffly, and, as he looked down at the medal, went away, spurs clattering. Therese came in presently, her face full of vivacity and color. "M'sieur le Capitaine," said she, "we are going for a little ride, the marquis and I. Will you come with us? You shall have the best horse in the stable." "And you my best thanks for the honor," I said. Our horses came up presently, and we all made off at a quick gallop. The forest avenues were now aglow and filled with hazy sunlight as with a flood, through which yellow leaves were slowly sinking. Our horses went to their fetlocks in a golden drift. The marquis rode on at a rapid pace, but soon Therese pulled rein, I keeping abreast of her. In a moment our horses were walking quietly. "You have news for me, ma'm'selle?" I remarked. "Indeed, I have much news," said she, as always, in French. "I was afraid you were not coming in time, m'sieur." She took a dainty letter from her bosom, passing it to me. My old passion flashed up as I took the perfumed sheets. I felt my heart quicken, my face burn with it. I was to have good news at last of those I loved better than my life, those I had not forgotten a moment in all the peril of war. I saw the handwriting of Louison and then a vision of her--the large eyes, the supple, splendid figure, the queenly bearing. It read;--