"Gad," said the man, "I remember poor little Fane—he went during the siege, fever—I remember the little fellow saying, half crying: ’I think English is made of stone.’ But it was before he had seen him at the fighting. That was a leader of men!" "Hard!" said Lady Gerardine. "Harry made of stone!" she gave a low laugh, half indignant. "Don’t you know," said Bethune, "that here"—he tapped the jagged lines of the mountain maps—"you can’t do anything if you’re not harder than the rocks? And with those devils of ours," his own face softened oddly as he spoke; "they’re hard enough—they’re devils, I tell you—to lead them right, you’ve got to be more than devil yourself—you’ve got to be—an archangel." Some vision of a glorious fighting Michael, with a stern serene face of immutable justice, featured with the beauty of the dead, rose before Rosamond. She flushed and trembled; then she thought back again and with anger. "Ah, but his heart," she said; "ah, you did not know him!" He wheeled round upon her and gazed at her, his cold eyes singularly enkindled. "You forget," said he, and quoted "that every man ’boasts two soul sides, one to face the world with, one to show a woman when he loves her.’" "Ah!" said Rosamond.—It was a tender cry, as if she had taken something very lovely to her heart and was holding it close. With an abrupt movement Bethune turned back to his table; his harsh face looked harsher and more unemotional than usual, and he began folding up his papers as if he thought the conversation had lasted long enough. "Perhaps to-morrow," he said, "you will be able to give me the beginning of the siege papers." "I will try," said Rosamond, catching her breath. And then, after a moment, she rose and left him without another word. * * * * * Rosamond felt restless; the walls of the house oppressed her; the sound of the piano in the drawing-room was maddening; she wanted to be out in the wide spaces with her overwhelming thoughts. She caught up a cape, drew the hood over her head, and went quickly forth to meet the December wind. Down the grass-grown avenues, under the bereft and complaining orchard trees, she went, making for the downs. At the boundary gate she met the old one-armed postman toiling with his burden. He thrust a letter into her hand and passed on. She saw that it was addressed in Sir Arthur’s writing, and bore the stamp of Melbury. She broke it open and read impatiently, eager to be back with her absorbing dream. Her husband was urgently summoning her to join him at once, under Lady Aspasia’s roof. He expressed surprise, tinged with dissatisfaction, that Lady Aspasia’s kind letter of invitation to her should have remained unanswered. "No doubt, dear," Sir Arthur wrote, "you are waiting until you can ascertain the date of your visitor’s departure, but this must not be allowed to interfere." Here was a command. Rosamond gave a vague laugh.