“Well, that limit shall not be passed, M. de Tavernay,” she assured me, her lips breaking into a smile, and, quite regardless of her danger, she leaned nearer to me. “Besides I have a deep confidence in you. The sentiments you have to-night expressed completely reassure me--I see now how foolish I was to think there could be any risk in coming here with you.” It was a two-edged compliment and I did not relish it, but she was gazing up at me with eyes so guileless and trusting that I choked back the words which rose in my throat. Perhaps, had I been older and more experienced with women, I might have seen the flicker of mischief which I suspect dwelt in their depths. Guilelessness is a favorite snare of Circe’s. “Let me whisper you a secret,” she added, leaning toward me, a little quirk at the corner of her lips, “your betrothed is a charming girl!” “Oh, you know her!” I said, and stared at her gloomily, for she seemed to delight in torturing me. “No--I have never met her--have never even seen her,” and she laughed to herself as she uttered the words; “but I have heard her spoken of. With her, you will soon forget this poor Charlotte de Chambray--you will fall in love with her even more desperately than you have with me, and she will make you happy.” “And will you regret that, mademoiselle?” I asked, realizing the folly of the question, but unable to suppress it. “Not in the least!” she retorted, and burst into a peal of laughter at sight of my crestfallen countenance--though it seemed to me that her face showed traces of crimson, too. But there is, as I had said, a limit to endurance. Her mockery raised in me suddenly a fierce madness--a carelessness of what might follow. I groped for her blindly, my arms were about her, crushing her to me with a sort of savage fury. The mockery was gone from her eyes now; she tried to beat me off, then, with a little sob, hid her face upon my shoulder. But pity was not in me, only a fierce exulting, and I raised her face, I lifted her lips to mine and kissed them desperately, passionately, again and again. Then I released her and stood erect, my blood on fire, a great joy at my heart. CHAPTER VII. I DARE AND AM FORGIVEN. FOR a moment she did not stir, only sat there crushed and dazed, staring straight before her, as though not understanding what had happened. And looking down at her my mood of exultation in my triumph changed suddenly to one of pity for her weakness. I had felt precisely the same emotion many times before, when, having brought down a bird or a rabbit by some daring or difficult shot, I came to the spot where my victim lay bleeding its life out. Pity for my victim always outweighed the satisfaction which the successful shot had given me, and I would tramp sadly home, resolved to hunt no more.