I went out of the room, called together my escort, mounted and rode off. It was past midnight now, and the night was clear. But I thought neither of the little beds under the slope of the roof nor of any danger on the road. There might have been a _franc-tireur_ behind every tree. I would never have noticed it until one of them had brought me down. Remorse was heavy upon me. I had behaved without consideration, without chivalry, without any manners at all. I had not been able to distinguish truth when it stared me in the face, or to recognise honesty when it looked out from a young girl's dark eyes. I had behaved, in a word, like the brute six months of war had made of me. I wondered with a vague hope whether after all time might not set matters right between M. Armand and Mademoiselle Sophie. And I wonder now whether it has. But even if I knew that it had, I should always remember that Christmas night of 1870 with acute regret. The only incident, indeed, which I can mention with the slightest satisfaction is this: On the way back to Noisy-le-Grand I came to a point where the road from Chelles crossed the road from Montfermeil. I halted at a little cabin which stood upon a grass-plot within the angle of the roads, and tying up all the money I had on me in a pocket-handkerchief I dropped the handkerchief through a broken window-pane. * * * * * The Colonel let the end of his cigar fall upon his plate, and pushed back his chair from the table. "But I see we shall be late for the opera," he said, as he glanced at the clock. [Illustration] A SPELL FOR A FAIRY BY ALFRED NOYES _Painting and Drawings by_ CLAUDE A. SHEPPERSON, A. R. W. S. GATHER, first, in your left hand (This must be at fall of day) Forty grains of yellow sand Where you think a mermaid lay. I have heard a wizard hint It is best to gather it sweet Out of the warm and fluttered dint Where you see her heart has beat. _Out of the dint in that sweet sand Gather forty grains, I say; Yet--if it fail you--understand I can show you a better way._ Out of that sand you melt your glass While the veils of night are drawn, Whispering, till the shadows pass, _Nixie--pixie--leprechaun_-- Then you blow your magic vial, Shape it like a crescent moon, Set it up and make your trial, Singing, "_Fairies, ah, come soon!_" _Round the cloudy crescent go, On the hill-top, in the dawn, Singing softly, on tip-toe, "Elaby Gathon! Elaby Gathon! Nixie--pixie--leprechaun._" Bring the blood of a white hen, Killed about the break of day, While the cock in the echoing glen Thrusts his gold neck every way, Over the brambles, peering, calling, Under the ferns, with a sudden fear, Far and wide, while the dews are falling, Clamouring, calling, everywhere. [Illustration]