She had not spoken with him since that night; but she had had two long letters superscribed: “In Camp, Headquarters, Dalgrothe Mountain,” and these had breathed only patriotism, the love of a cause, the warmth of a strong, virile temperament, almost a poetical abandon of unnamed ambitions and achievements. She had read the letters again and again, for she had found it hard to reconcile them with her later knowledge of this man. He wrote to her as to an ally, frankly, warmly. She felt the genuine thing in him somewhere; and, in spite of all, she felt a sort of kinship for him. Yet that scene--that scene! She flushed with anger again, and, in spite of her smiling lips, the young Seigneur saw the flush, and wondered. “The thing must end soon,” he said, as he rose to go, for a messenger had come for him. “He is injuring the peace, the trade, and the life of the parishes; he is gathering men and arms, drilling, exploiting military designs in one country, to proceed against another. England is at peace with France!” “An international matter, this?” she asked sarcastically. “Yes. The Government at Quebec is English; we are French and he is French; and, I repeat, this thing is serious.” She smiled. “I am an American. I have no responsibility.” “They might arrest you for aiding and abetting if--” “If what, dear and cheerful friend?” “If I did not make it right for you.” He smiled, approving his own kindness. She touched his arm, and said with ironical sweetness: “How you relieve my mind!” Then with delicate insinuation: “I have a lot of old muskets here, at least two hundred pounds of powder, and plenty of provisions, and I will send them to--Valmond Napoleon.” He instantly became grave. “I warn you--” She interrupted him. “Nonsense! You warn me!” She laughed mockingly. “I warn you, dear Seigneur, that you will be more sorry than satisfied, if you meddle in this matter.” “You are going to send those things to him?” he asked anxiously. “Certainly--and food every day.” And she kept her word. De la Riviere, as he went down the hill, thought with irritation of how ill things were going with him and Madame Chalice--so different from two years ago, when their friendship had first begun. He had remembered her with a singular persistency; he had looked forward to her coming back; and when she came, his heart had fluttered like a schoolboy’s. But things had changed. Clearly she was interested in this impostor. Was it the man himself or the adventure? He did not know. But the adventure was the man--and who could tell? Once he thought he had detected some warmth for himself in her eye, in the clasp of her hand; there was nothing of that sort now. A black, ungentlemanly spirit seized him.