“Undoubtedly,” I answered. “Only first I wish to assure myself that there is no house too near us. Good-night, mademoiselle.” “Good-night, my friend,” she said, looking up at me with a little tremulous smile full of sorrow and weariness. I stood a moment gazing down at her, longing to gather her in my arms, as one would a child, and caress and comfort her and hold her so until she fell asleep. But I managed to crush the longing back and turn away to the task which I had set myself. The thicket crowned a low ridge which stretched between two gentle valleys. That we had left was, as I have said, innocent of human habitation. In the one to the north I fancied I could discern a group of houses, but they were so far away that we need apprehend no danger from them. To the westward, along the ridge, the thicket stretched as far as I could see. Assured that our hiding-place was as safe as could be hoped for, I made my way back to it and walked softly to the dark figure on the grass. She was lying on her side, her head pillowed on her arm, and as I bent above her to make sure that she was protected from the chill of the night, I knew by her regular breathing that she slept. That sleep, so peaceful and trusting, consecrated the little glade--hallowed it, transformed it into such a temple that I dared lay me down only upon its margin, as though it were a holy place. Long I lay staring up at the heavens, wondering if I might indeed hope to win this superb creature; weaving a golden future which we trod arm in arm. To possess her, to have her always at my side, the mistress of my home, the mother of my children--the thought shook me with a delicious trembling. But at last cold reason snatched me down from this empyrean height. I told myself I was a fool, and so turned on my side, closed my eyes resolutely, and in the end sank to sleep. I awoke with the full sun staring me in the face and sat up with a start to find my companion smiling at me across the little amphitheatre. “Good-morning, monsieur,” she said. “Good-morning,” I responded, and rose and went toward her. In some magical way she had removed the stains of travel; to my eyes she seemed to have stepped but this moment from her bath. A sudden loathing of my own foul and hideous clothing came over me. How, in that guise, could she regard me with anything but disgust? “Mademoiselle,” I said, “I am ashamed to stand here before you in this clear light, for you are sweet and fresh as the morning, while I----” “Choose the harder part,” she interrupted, “in order to serve me better.” “But to be hideous----” “Oh, I do not look at the clothes,” she said; “and as for the face----” “Well,” I prompted, “as for the face----” She stole a glance at me. “As for the face,” she continued, “you will remember that I bathed it last night, monsieur, while I was attempting to revive you, and so it is nearly as attractive as nature made it.” “A poor consolation,” I retorted.