She looked up with a flash of anger. "Am I a child or an intriguing woman? No, no. Do your best, or your worst, or I shall despise you for your weakness. I have told you that I have scant hopes for your success, monsieur." What could I say? I stood before her awkwardly. "Mademoiselle, may I tell you something of myself and my people? You should know what sort of name you are to bear." But she pressed her hands outward. "No, no!" she cried. "Why tell me?" Then she sobered. "I know that you are brave and kind," she said, with her eyes down. "Beyond that--I do not think that I am interested, monsieur." I felt angered. "You should be interested," I said bluntly. "Well, the night is slipping away. Let me lead you to the fire and bid you good-night." Her finger tips met mine as we walked back together, but the touch was as remote as the brushing of the pine boughs on my cheek. Yet when I would have handed her her blanket and turned away, she detained me. "Sit with me a little longer, monsieur," she begged. "I--I think I am afraid of the woods to-night. Let us sit here a while." I could not grasp her mood, but there was nothing for me but to yield to it. I made her as comfortable as possible, and saw that the fire was kept alight; then I sat near her. I was tired, but time went swiftly. My mind would not have given my body rest, even had I lain down. In time the woman leaned toward me. "There is--there is no woman who will suffer from this?" she asked slowly. I stirred the fire. "I have no wife, mademoiselle." "I did not mean that. There is no woman who--who cares for you?" "Not to my knowledge." "And you--and you, monsieur? There is no one whom you are giving up?" I answered slowly. "Mademoiselle," I said, "you are a strangely wise woman. You know the value of reticence,--something few women seem to know. We have talked of many things, of ambition, of justice, of generosity, but never, never of love. Are you wise to open the past in that one matter? I have asked you no questions." She hid her face in her hands. "But I will tell you. I was betrothed to my cousin,--to Benjamin Starling. I would not marry him now, I would not marry him now to save him from the rack. I have nothing more to tell you, monsieur." I let the moments slip. The east was brightening, and in an hour it would be dawn. I knew we needed rest. I rose, and, standing behind the woman, bent over her.