“Mademoiselle,” I said, touching her delicate, quivering shoulder, “it was nothing--or rather it was just what you should have done. The fault was wholly mine. I should not have burst in upon you like that; but I was so worried, so anxious to know that you were safe. You were right in shooting. If you had killed me it would have been no more than I deserved. I blame only myself, and bitterly. I was a fool. I hope you will find it in your heart to pardon me.” Her sobs had ceased, and as I finished she threw back her hair and sat erect again. I saw with astonishment and relief that she was smiling--and I found her smile more disturbing than her tears. “Then we are quits, are we not,” she asked, “since we each made a mistake?” “You did not make a mistake,” I protested, “so we are not quits until you have forgiven me.” She held out her hand with a charming gesture. “You are forgiven,” she said, “so far as you need forgiveness. And now,” she continued, drawing away the hand which I had not the courage to relinquish, and rising quickly to her feet, “what are your plans?” “There is down yonder,” I answered, “a charming little brook, which purls over the stones, and stops to loiter, here and there, in the basins of the rock. The water is very cool and clear.” “Then come!” she cried. “Ah, I am desperately thirsty and frightfully dirty. I am ashamed for you to see me!” “I was just marvelling,” I retorted, “that you had kept yourself so immaculate. I cannot understand it.” “Immaculate!” she echoed, and set off down the slope. But suddenly she stopped. “Shall we return?” she asked. “Shall we see the cave again?” “No, I think not,” I answered; “we must be starting westward.” “Then I must say good-by to it;” and she ran back to the entrance, drew aside the curtain and fell upon her knees. I saw her throw a kiss into the darkness and her head bent for a moment as though in prayer. I, too, closed my eyes and prayed God that He would give me strength to guide this woman through to safety. At last she arose and rejoined me. “It is a lovable cave,” she said, “and it kept us safe. It would have been ungrateful to go away without a word of thanks;” and somehow, for me, as for her, the cavern in that instant assumed a personality, benign and cheerful. I could fancy it glowing with pleasure at thought of this last good deed. “You were right,” I agreed. “But then you are always right.” “Oh, no,” she protested quickly. “Sometimes I am very wrong. But you will discover that for yourself.” “Shall I? When?” “All too soon, I fear;” and she looked at me with a curious little smile. “I don’t believe it!” I retorted, with conviction. She only smiled again in a way I could not understand, and blushed and went on without speaking. Who can read a woman’s thoughts? Certainly not I!