hell--that was André’s recollection of his return until he dropped fainting within his own lines.
Two flickering candles danced in his eyes as he opened them.
“Bravo!” whispered a caressing voice. “Bravo!”
He was lying in a long chair, and the little _vivandière_ was kneeling beside him.
“Bravo!” she repeated, “and now drink--drink!” She forced brandy, glorious and hot, down his throat.
“Ah!” He sat up. The horror was slowly fading away, though he could still see floating between her face and his that black cabin roaring red, and that outcast woman’s face crushed into pulp beneath the iron of his horse’s shoe. “The papers--the plans,” he muttered.
“They are here,” she waved them softly, they were stained with blood. “Yes, we are saved--France and the army and the King are saved and you--you have saved us.”
André smiled, letting his head drop. He was supremely happy. Denise would hear of this--Denise--ah!
“Come, my friend,” the _vivandière_ whispered, “look at yourself. It is too droll.”
He took the mirror from her and laughed--laughed loud and long. Here was, indeed, a picture of a ruffian with a uniform torn and singed, the paint smeared over his cheeks, one sleeve cut away, and his left arm bandaged! Pah! that was where Statham had stabbed him. He would pay for it to-morrow--no, today--today.
“I found the papers when you fainted,” said the _vivandière_. “I wept when I found them, for I was sick with fear that you had failed, and now, _mon ami_, I take them to Monseigneur le Maréchal.”
“Yes, Mademoiselle, they are yours.”
Then André told his story while she listened eagerly. But he did not tell her all, for instinctively he felt some things he had discovered that night had better be locked as a secret in his own heart until he knew more.“I do not think that was ‘No. 101,’” she remarked thoughtfully. “But it is a pity you did not see her face. Some day hereafter it might be useful to be able to recognise that woman.”

“Perhaps so,” he assented, and he added to himself, “I shall see it before I die. It is written in the stars.” For the curious thought haunted his mind that if he had seen that woman’s face he would never have returned. Yet Captain Statham had seen it; suddenly his cry, his look in that narrow passage, rose before him. Was it what he had seen which had shot such awful fear and horror into his eyes? Could it be that the girl in the mask was--ah! he must wait before the question was answered. And the answer would certainly come. That too was written in the stars.

“And now sleep, Vicomte,” his companion whispered. “In four hours the dawn will be here. A battle is at hand, and once more you must fight for the fair eyes of your mistress, for the 

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