He spoke more vehemently now, for there was something in Crystal's calm attitude which had begun to chill him. Had he not been in deadly danger all the day? Had she not heard that distant cannon's roar which had threatened his life throughout all these hours? Had he not come back out of the very jaws of Death? And yet here she stood white as a lily and as unruffled; except for that one first exclamation of joy not a single cry from the heart had forced itself through her pale, slightly trembling lips: yet she was sweet and girlish and tender as of old and even now at the implied reproach her eyes had quickly filled with tears. "How can you ask, Maurice?" she protested gently. "I have thought of you and prayed for you all day." It was her quiet serenity that disconcerted him--the kindly tone of her voice--her calm, unembarrassed manner checked his passionate impulse and caused him to bite his underlip with vexation until it bled. The shadows of evening were closing in around them: from the windows of the houses close by dim, yellow lights began to blink like eyes. Overhead, the exquisite towers of Ste. Gudule stood out against the stormy sky like perfect, delicate lace-work turned to stone, whilst the glass of the west window glittered like a sheet of sapphires and emeralds and rubies, as it caught the last rays of the sinking sun. Crystal's graceful figure stood out in its white, summer draperies, clear and crystalline as herself against the sombre background of the cathedral porch. And Maurice watched her through the dim shadows of gathering twilight: he watched her as a fowler watches the bird which he has captured and never wholly tamed. Somehow he felt that her love for him was not quite what it had been until now: that she was no longer the same girlish, submissive creature on whose soft cheeks a word or look from him had the power to raise a flush of joy. She was different now--in a curious, intangible way which he could not define. And jealousy reared up its threatening head more insistently:--bitter jealousy which embraced de Marmont, Clyffurde, Fate and Circumstance--but Clyffurde above all--the stranger hitherto deemed of no account, but who now--wounded, abandoned, dying, perhaps--seemed a more formidable rival than Maurice awhile ago had deemed possible. He cursed himself for that touch of sentiment--he called it cowardice--which the other night, after the ball, had prompted him to write to Crystal. But for that voluntary confession--he thought--she could never have despised him. And following up the train of his own thoughts, and realising that these had not been spoken aloud, he suddenly called out abruptly: "Is it because of my letter, Crystal?" She gave a start, and turned even paler than she had been before. Obviously she had been brought roughly back from the land of dreams. "Your letter, Maurice?" she asked vaguely, "what do you mean?"