“You turn it skilfully,” I said. “At least, I hope you will discourage any more such compliments.” “Very well,” she agreed; “I promise. But we must be getting on;” and she attempted to rise. I caught her arm and held her in her seat. “We must be doing no such thing!” I retorted. “It is worse than foolish to plunge ahead as we have been doing, half-starved. You are going to remain here and rest. I will make you a bed of grass and leaves in this little hollow, and you will lie here quietly and gaze at the stars, thinking of me as kindly as you can, while I go in search of food. I shall not be long away, and you will be quite safe.” She sat without answering, watching me while I piled such dry grass as I could find into the little hollow. At last it was ready. “Now,” I said, turning to her, “if you will rest here----” “You are very good to me,” she breathed, and took her place upon the couch I had provided, which, I fear, was none too soft. “Oh, no,” I answered, controlling myself with a mighty effort as I bent above her and assured myself that her cloak was snug about her; “I am not wholly unselfish. I must keep you fresh; I must not permit you to exhaust yourself, or you will be getting ill, and then what should I do?” “No, I shall not be ill,” she said quite positively. “I am not such a weakling as that!” “Besides,” I added, “I am frightfully hungry; I must have something to eat, if I commit murder for it.” “You will not expose yourself?” she asked quickly. “No; there is no danger,” I assured her. “I shall pray for you,” she added calmly. “And I fear there is one thing I must ask of you.” “Ask it,” I said. “Before I left my room at the château,” she continued, “I chose the heaviest shoes I had----” There was no need that she should say more. I bent and touched one of the little feet just peeping from beneath the cloak. However heavy the shoes had been, they were certainly far too light for the rough service which had been exacted of them. They were almost in tatters, and I could guess how the sharp stones which had torn the leather had bruised the tender flesh within. Yet she had followed me without a sigh, without a murmur! Impulsively I bent and kissed the instep of the little shoe, then rose unsteadily to my feet. “I will get you another pair,” I said; “and if I am to have any peace of mind, you must not again permit me to forget your welfare, as I have been doing. With the best intentions in the world, I am only a selfish and obtuse fellow, with a brain not bright enough to think of more than one thing at a time.” “I saw how your thoughts were occupied,” she protested. “I knew that our safety depended upon you, and I did not wish to disturb you.” “To disturb me?” I echoed. “Ah, for once, mademoiselle, you were not really kind; for by keeping silent you have done more than that--you have made me suffer. But there!--I am wasting time, and I can guess your hunger by my own. I will go. You are not afraid?”