As she returns, there is a muffled scream at the door of the coup‚. "Mon Dieu!" Josephine screams. "My child! my Louise!" The coup‚ door is closing. A strong voice cries to the driver, "Allez vite!" As "Jehu" is about to lash his horses, an apparition glues him to his seat. A gray-haired man points an ugly revolver at his head. "Halt!" he says. The street is deserted. Villa Rocca opens the door. A strong hand hurls him to the gutter. Louise is urged from the coach. She is in her home again! Peyton turns to grasp the man, who picks himself from the gutter. He is ten seconds too late. The carriage is off like a flash; it turns the corner at a gallop. Too cool to leave the fort unguarded, Peyton enters the salon. He finds Josephine moaning over Louise, who has fainted. In a half-hour, PŠre Fran‡ois and the young men are a bodyguard on duty. Peyton drives to the bank, and telegraphs Woods at London: "Come instantly! Attempt to abduct, prevented by me! Danger! PEYTON." The next night, in the rooms of the miner, the padre and Peyton hold a council of war. An engine waits at the "Gare du Nord." When sunlight gilds once more Notre Dame, Peyton enters the car with a lady, clad in black. A maid, selected by Joseph Vimont, is of the party. "Monsieur Joseph" himself strolls into the depot. He jumps into the cab with the engineer. "Allons!" They are off. From forty miles away a few clicks of the telegraph flash the news to Woods. The priest knows that Peyton and his ward are safely "en route." "TrŠs bien!" It is years before the light foot of Louise Moreau presses again the threshold of her childhood's home. In a sunny chateau, near Lausanne, a merry girl grows into a superb "Lady of the Lake." She is "Louise Moreau," but Louise "en reine." She rules the hearts of gentle Henry Peyton and the "autocrat of the Golden Chariot." It is beyond the ken of "Natalie de Santos," or Philip Hardin, to pierce the mystery of that castle by the waters of the Swiss lake. Visions of peace lend new charms to the love of the pure-souled girl who wanders there. Louise is not always alone by Leman's blue waters. Colonel Peyton is a thoughtful, aging man, saddened by his fiery past. He sees nothing. He dreams of the flag which went down in battle and storm. The flag of which Father Ryan sang--"in fond recollection of a dead brother"--the ill-fated stars and bars: "Furl that banner, for 'tis weary, Round its staff 'tis drooping dreary. Furl it, fold it, it is best; For there's not a man to wave it-- And there's not a sword to save it-- And there's not one left to lave it In the blood which heroes gave it; And its foes now scorn and brave it; Furl it, hide it; let it rest." But younger and brighter eyes than his own, dimmed with battle smoke, look love into each other. Louise and Armand feel the throbbing whispers of the lake in their own beating hearts.