All at once Madame Chalice came into his thoughts, swam in his sight, and he knew that what he felt for this peasant girl was of one side of his nature only. All of him worth the having--was any worth the having? responded to that diffusing charm which brought so many men to the feet of that lady of the Manor, who had lovers by the score: from such as the Cure and the avocat, gentle and noble, and requited, to the young Seigneur, selfish and ulterior, and unrequited. He got to his feet quietly. No, he would make a decent exit, in triumph or defeat, to honour the woman who was standing his friend. Let them, the British Government at Quebec, proceed against him; he would have only one trouble to meet, one to leave behind. He would not load this girl with shame as well as sorrow. Her love itself was affliction enough to her. This adventure was serious; a bullet might drop him; the law might remove him: so he would leave here at once. He was about to open the window, when he heard a door shut below, and the thud of heavy steps outside the house. Drawing back, he waited until he heard the foot of Elise upon the stair. She came in without a light, and at first did not see him. He heard her gasp. Stepping forward a little, he said: “I am here, Elise. Come.” She trembled as she came. “Oh, monsieur--your Excellency!” she whispered; “oh, you cannot go down, for my mother sits ill by the fire. You cannot go out that way.” He took both her hands. “No matter. Poor child, you are trembling! Come.” He drew her towards the couch. She shrank back. “Oh no, monsieur, oh--I die of shame!” “There is no need, Elise,” he answered gently, and he sat on the edge of the couch, and drew her to his side. “Let us say good-night.” She grew very still, and he felt her move towards him, as she divined his purpose, and knew that this room of hers would have no shadow in it to-morrow, and her soul no unpardonable sin. A warm peace passed through her veins, and she drew nearer still. She did not know that this new ardent confidence came near to wrecking her. For Valmond had an instant’s madness, and only saved himself from the tumult in his blood by getting to his feet, with strenuous resolution. Taking both her hands, he kissed her on the cheeks, and said: “Adieu, Elise. May your sorrow never be more, and my happiness never less. I am going now.” He felt her hand grasp his arm, as if with a desire that he should not leave her. Then she rose quickly, and came with him to the window. Raising the sash, she held it, and he looked out. There seemed to be no one in the road, no one in the yard. So, half turning, he swung himself down by his hands, and dropped to the ground. From the window above a sob came to him, and Elise’s face, all tears, showed for an instant in the moonlight. He did not seek the road directly, but, climbing a fence near by, crossed a hay-field, going unseen, as he thought, to the village.