Sick at heart and angry at his weakness, he sat down upon one of the blocks of stone that rose from among the heather just as footsteps approached from the direction in which he had come, and a strange, foreign-looking man, thin, ghastly, and whose ragged garments were hardly hidden under a rough pea-jacket, looked at him sharply as he passed, and raised his cap, showing his closely cut hair. Onslow acknowledged his salute, saw in him a beggar, and his hand involuntarily went to his pocket; but the man made a quick gesture, and passed on. “One as wretched, perhaps, as I,” thought Onslow; and then, as if moved by some strange impulse, he rose and followed the man, who somehow had a strange fascination for him. The path turned there, and the man disappeared beyond a projecting rock, but reappeared, sheltering behind the rock, as if to avoid being seen. It was curious, but Onslow passed on, and left the man bending downward, as if to fill a pipe. But the man and his gestures passed out of Onslow’s thoughts instantly, for, as he went on past the rock in turn, he stopped short, paralyzed at the sight of a well-dressed lady approaching him rapidly, leaning down and talking to a little elfish, sharp-faced peasant child, whom she was leading by one hand, while she carried a small traveling bag in the other. “Lucille!” gasped Onslow, as a great dread of some fresh complication assailed him. She started, drew herself up erect, and then, with a look of wonder in her eyes which gave place to a look of delight: “Ah! _mon chéri_,” she cried. “Then you have followed me?” Then to the wondering child, “Go back to the cottage, _petite_. I do not want you yet. I will fetch you soon. The little one of an old friend, Frank,” she continued. The handsome, smiling face suddenly turned livid, the jaw dropped, and with her eyes dilated, Lucille de Vigny stood gazing past Onslow as if at some spectral object at his back. Then, clutching the bag to her breast as if to protect herself, she uttered a wild, animal-like cry of dread, turned and dashed down among the rocks where a precipitous track led to the sea. Almost at the same moment a hoarse voice cried to Onslow in French: “Take care! The poor child! Do not let her see!” But as the man literally plunged down the track, the child uttered a piercing shriek, covered her little face with her hands, and dropped down upon her knees.