They were silent again, both intently reading in the other’s eyes, while up the shadowy valley the sounds of the sleeping camp came faintly to their ears, and the dull rumble of wheels upon the bridge of boats went on unceasingly. There was a shriek, the loud, despairing cry of man or beast in mortal peril, that passed, unspeakably mournful, through the dark night. “Listen, Silvine,” Honoré slowly and feelingly went on; “you sent me a letter that afforded me great pleasure. I should have never come back here, but that letter—I have been reading it again this evening—speaks of things that could not have been expressed more delicately—” She had turned pale when first she heard the subject mentioned. Perhaps he was angry that she had dared to write to him, like one devoid of shame; then, as his meaning became more clear, her face reddened with delight. “I know you to be truthful, and knowing it, I believe what you wrote in that letter—yes, I believe it now implicitly. You were right in supposing that, if I were to die in battle without seeing you again, it would be a great sorrow to me to leave this world with the thought that you no longer loved me. And therefore, since you love me still, since I am your first and only love—” His tongue became thick, his emotion was so deep that expression failed him. “Listen, Silvine; if those beasts of Prussians let me live, you shall yet be mine, yes, as soon as I have served my time out we will be married.” She rose and stood erect upon her feet, gave a cry of joy, and threw herself upon the young man’s bosom. She could not speak a word; every drop of blood in her veins was in her cheeks. He seated himself upon the chair and drew her down upon his lap. “I have thought the matter over carefully; it was to say what I have said that I came here this evening. Should my father refuse us his consent, the earth is large; we will go away. And your little one, no one shall harm him, _mon Dieu!_ More will come along, and among them all I shall not know him from the others.” She was forgiven, fully and entirely. Such happiness seemed too great to be true; she resisted, murmuring: “No, it cannot be; it is too much; perhaps you might repent your generosity some day. But how good it is of you, Honoré, and how I love you!” He silenced her with a kiss upon the lips, and strength was wanting her longer to put aside the great, the unhoped-for good fortune that had come to her; a life of happiness where she had looked forward to one of loneliness and sorrow! With an involuntary, irresistible impulse she threw her arms about him, kissing him again and again, straining him to her bosom with all her woman’s strength, as a treasure that was lost and found again, that was hers, hers alone, that thenceforth no one was ever to take from her. He was hers once more, he whom she had lost, and she would die rather than let anyone deprive her of him.