Then, as his thoughts travelled on to the source of the misapprehension he remembered his son, and the memory was like an icy hand upon his temples that chilled him through and through. Lying there with eyes still closed he groaned. Happiness was within his grasp at last. Love might be his again did he but ask it, and the love of as pure and sweet a creature as ever God sent to chasten a man's life. A great tenderness possessed him. A burning temptation to cast to the winds his plighted word, to make a mock of faith, to deride honour, and to seize this woman for his own. She loved him he knew it now; he loved her--the knowledge had come as suddenly upon him. Compared with this what could his faith, his word, his honour give him? What to him, in the face of this, was that paltry fellow, his son, who had spurned him! The hardest fight he ever fought, he fought it there, lying supine upon the ground, his head in her lap. Had he fought it out with closed eyes, perchance honour and his plighted word had won the day; but he opened them, and they met Cynthia's. A while they stayed thus; the hungry glance of his grey eyes peering into the clear blue depths of hers; and in those depths his soul was drowned, his honour stifled. “Cynthia,” he cried, “God pity me, I love you!” And he swooned again. CHAPTER XXVI. TO FRANCE That cry, which she but half understood, was still ringing in her ears, when the door was of a sudden flung open, and across the threshold a very daintily arrayed young gentleman stepped briskly, the expostulating landlord following close upon his heels. “I tell thee, lying dog,” he cried, “I saw him ride into the yard, and, 'fore George, he shall give me the chance of mending my losses. Be off to your father, you Devil's natural.” Cynthia looked up in alarm, whereupon that merry blood catching sight of her, halted in some confusion at what he saw. “Rat me, madam,” he cried, “I did not know--I had not looked to--” He stopped, and remembering at last his manners he made her a low bow. “Your servant, madam,” said he, “your servant Harry Foster.” She gazed at him, her eyes full of inquiry, but said nothing, whereat the pretty gentleman plucked awkwardly at his ruffles and wished himself elsewhere. “I did not know, madam, that your husband was hurt.” “He is not my husband, sir,” she answered, scarce knowing what she said. “Gadso!” he ejaculated. “Yet you ran away from him?” Her cheeks grew crimson. “The door, sir, is behind you.” “So, madam, is that thief the landlord,” he made answer, no whit abashed. “Come hither, you bladder of fat, the gentleman is hurt.”