her feet, and the flames of fire pointing to the motto “_Dieu Le Vengeur!_”

CHAPTER V THE PRESUMPTION OF A BEARDLESS CHEVALIER ANDRÉ rode at a walking pace down the slope to the village, for he wanted to think. He had always prided himself on his knowledge of women; he had imagined he knew Denise as well as himself. She was of his class, lovely, high-spirited, proud, patriotic, and best of all a true woman. Hence it was a sore and surprising blow to his pride to discover that she should reject his love because he had lived the life...“Not in the least,” the Chevalier replied without stirring, though the girl began to giggle with an affectation of alarmed modesty. “My wine is just done”; he drained off the glass. “I will leave Toinette to you, Vicomte, for,” he put on his hat, “it is time I returned to the château.”

This studied insolence was exactly what André required. “I thank you,” he said, freezingly, “but before I take your place, you and I, Monsieur le Chevalier, will have a word first.” “As you please, my dear Vicomte,” said the young man, swinging comfortably on to the table and peering at him from under his saucy plumes. “You will have much to say, I doubt not, for you must have said so little at the château. Run away, my child,” he added to the wench, who was now staring at them both with genuine alarm in her coarse eyes, “run away.” André closed the door. “You will not return to the château,” he said quietly. 

“My dear Vicomte, you suffer from the strangest hallucinations, stupid phantoms of the mind, if you----” “Perhaps,” was the cold reply, “but the point of a sword is a reality which exorcises any and every phantom.” The Chevalier laughed softly. “Yes,” André continued, “I say it with infinite regret, because you are young, you will not return to the château, for I am going to kill you, unless----” “Unless?” The Chevalier slowly swung off the table. “Unless you will give me your word of honour now that you will leave France to-morrow and never return.” 

The young man reflectively put back one of his dainty love curls. “Ah, my dear Vicomte,” he answered, “I say it too with infinite regret, but that I cannot promise. So you must kill me I fear. Alas!” he added with dilatory derision, “alas! what have I done?” 

“Very good”--André fastened his cloak--“in three days we will meet in Paris.” “In Paris? Why not kill me here?” “Here?” André stared at him in astonishment. “Here and at once.” He walked to the door. “Two torches,” he called, “two torches.” When he had lit them the Chevalier marched out. “This 

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