She flushed as he spoke, and a retort seemed about to spring to her lips; but instead of replying she shrugged her shoulders, gave a sharp cut of the whip to the horse, and rode off down the pathway. De Lacheville laughed. "She has spirit to the last. She pleases me;" and turning, beheld Robert Tournay in the path before him. For a moment neither spoke; then the nobleman asked sternly, "Have you been spying upon me?" "I have heard what has passed between you and that woman," replied Tournay with a significance that made the marquis start. "You villain," replied the nobleman hotly, "if you breathe a word about what you have seen I will have you whipped by my lackeys." Tournay's lips curled defiantly. "Or," continued the marquis, "if one word of scandal reaches the ears of Mademoiselle de Rochefort"-- Before the words had left his lips, Tournay sprang forward and had him by the arm. "Do not stain her name by speaking it," he cried fiercely. "I have heard you insult her; I have seen how you would dishonor her; you, who are not worthy to touch the hem of her garment. What right have you to become her husband? Your very presence would degrade her. You shall not wed her." White with rage, if not from fear, the marquis struggled to free himself from Tournay's grasp, but he could neither throw off his antagonist nor move his arm enough to draw his sword. Finding himself powerless in the hands of the stronger man, he remained passive, only the twitching of his mouth betraying his passion. "And you would prevent my marriage," he said coldly. "So be it. Go to the baron; tell your story. Go also to mademoiselle, his daughter; repeat the scandal to her ears; say, 'I am your champion;' and how will they receive you? The baron will have you kicked from the room and mademoiselle will scorn you. Championed by a servant! What an honor for a lady!" The truth of what he said struck Tournay harder than any blow; his arms dropped to his side, and he stepped back, as if powerless. The marquis arranged the lace ruffle about his neck. Placing his hand upon his sword he eyed Tournay as if debating what course to pursue. He smarted under the treatment he had received, and his eyes glittered viciously as if he meditated some prompt reprisal. But above all the marquis was politic, and he also knew that in his biting tongue he possessed a weapon keener than a sword. He stooped and plucked a flower from the border of the path, and as he spoke a sarcastic smile played mockingly about his lips. "I shall marry mademoiselle," he began, slowly dwelling on each word, while he plucked the petals from the flower, and tossed them, one by one, into the air. The gesture was a careless one, but there was a vicious cruelty about his fingers as he tore the flower. "And you," continued the marquis,--"you, who one might think had dared to raise your eyes toward the lady's face"--