She leaned away from me into the corner of the seat, and I fancied she shivered slightly. “You are cold,” I said remorsefully. “I have been thoughtless. The air is chilly and a mist is rising from the river. May I get my cloak for you?” “No, M. de Tavernay,” she answered, rising to her feet somewhat unsteadily. “I must really leave you. Remember, we are to start for Poitiers in the morning, and I have many things to do.” It would have been selfish to protest, heartless to expose her longer to the dampness of the night. “At least,” I said, “I shall ride by the window of the coach to-morrow, where I can still see you.” “Yes,” she laughed, “and I think I can promise that madame will even permit you to speak to me, if you are very good. Come.” I walked beside her along the gravelled path, drinking in her beauty, exulting in my passion, pressing to my heart the cross which tore me. Past the tower we went, past the hedge which framed the garden. I paused for a last look back at it--ah, I had spent a happy hour there! “There will never be another night like this!” I said. “Never, never can there be another night like this!” “Dear garden!” my companion murmured, and threw a kiss to it. “Then you will remember it, too?” I asked, scarce breathing. “Oh, yes,” she answered, very softly. “It is the place where I have gained a--friend!” It was not the word I had hoped for, but the most, no doubt, I could expect. I went on beside her, my head bowed. A friend! A friend! Ah, it was something more than that my heart desired. At last we came to the broad flight of steps which led upward to the terrace. “I must leave you here, monsieur,” she said, and mounted a step or two, then turned and looked down at me with eyes that glowed and glowed with a strange inward light. A mad impulse seized me to fling honor to the winds, to throw myself upon my knees, to implore her to flee with me somewhere--anywhere--to a wilderness, a desert island, where there would be only we and our love. Perhaps she guessed my thought, for she smiled tremulously and held out her hand to me very tenderly. “Take courage, my friend,” she said. “There is a voice speaking to me also. It tells me that fate will not be so cruel as you think; it promises that your future shall, after all, be happy.” I bent and kissed her hand with lips that trembled so I could scarce control them. For an instant she laid her other hand lightly upon my head, as though in benediction, then turned and went on up the steps. But at the top she paused, looked down at me, leaned toward me. “My love! My love!” I murmured, a mist before my eyes. She gazed down at me a moment longer--into my eyes, into my soul. Then, with a sudden movement, she took the rose from her bosom, kissed it and flung it down to me with a gesture divine, adorable. When I raised my head from the flower she was gone. CHAPTER VIII. A SERPENT IN THE GARDEN.