“What nonsense! Take my advice, the advice of a man who knows more than you of women. Do not draw rein at Poitiers. Press on to the end of the journey. You will find a fair prize awaiting you.” I shook my head--he may have known other women, but not this one. “Nevertheless I should like to have the note, M. de Marigny,” I said. “It will comfort me somewhat. And besides, I am to start to-morrow.” “To-morrow!” he cried. “A week hence perhaps, if all goes well.” I smiled and continued to hold out my hand. “Let me have the note, monsieur,” I repeated. He hesitated a moment, still looking at me, then went to the other room and brought the note back with him and placed it in my hands. My fingers were trembling so I could scarcely break the seal; a mad hope possessed me that she had absolved me from my vow, that she summoned me to her. As I opened the paper a little heap of withered rose leaves fell upon my breast. “Ah, you see!” cried Marigny. “I was right, then!” I could not answer, but I held out the note for him to read. It contained but one word: “Courage!” “Well,” he said, “that is good advice. That is precisely what you need in this affair, M. de Tavernay.” “Yes,” I agreed bitterly; “courage to give her up--courage never again to see her. You see she has gone!” “She could not very well remain,” he said dryly, “after listening to you three days in your delirium!” “My delirium?” “Oh, I dare say she was not offended--what woman would have been?--but she was certainly red to the ears most of the time. Few maidens, I fancy, have been treated to such a continuous stretch of love-making.” I reddened, too, at thought of it. “What she has suffered on my account!” I murmured. “I tell you she did not suffer in the least,” repeated Marigny. “You permitted her to see to the very bottom of your soul, and she saw no image there except her own!” “She knew that from the first,” I said sadly; “that does not alter matters. No; there is no way out, M. de Marigny. I can never hope to marry her--honor forbids it--an oath not to be broken. She herself has pointed that out to me in the clearest way. She has shown me what a coward I was when, for a moment, I permitted my love for her to blind me to my duty; and I know how she hates a coward. That is the real meaning of this message, monsieur; she is afraid even yet that I may not be brave enough.” Marigny had risen and stood looking down at me with a queer little smile upon his lips. “Ah, M. de Tavernay,” he said at last, “I understand now why that blow on the head failed to kill you.” With which cryptic utterance he left the room. CHAPTER XXVII. THE PATH OF HONOR.