conjecture. But we were at the door of my antagonist's house in a few moments, and he bade me hand over my burden. As he took her in his arms he exclaimed: 'To-morrow night, remember. The Sillon: and come without witnesses.'"

"Quite a romance," said Cartier; "but you are never long in a place without picking up something of the sort. How long have you been in St Malo?"

"Since yesterday afternoon. I had gone out for a moonlight stroll, and was crossing the Sillon, dreaming of that glorious voyage we had together up the Hochelaga."

"Well, Charles," said Claude, "have a care! If you keep up this sort of thing you are never likely to have another such voyage. But, by the way, did not your adversary act in rather a strange way for a lover? He allowed you to carry the fair one, did you say?"

"Yes, and walked ahead, as if he had been her father."

"I am inclined to think you have been mistaken. No lover would have behaved in that manner. He is probably her father or elder brother."

"Neither, neither, Claude? He was too young to be her father, unless the moonlight greatly deceived me, and he resembled her as much as I do one of the gargoyles on Notre Dame de Paris. But I am glad you have thrown out the hint. I will diligently enquire of him if he is her lover, and if he is not, I will be satisfied with disarming and humiliating him a little for his boldness. If he is, however, I am much afraid I shall have to despatch him to Heaven, as an obstacle in the way of my winning the lady of the dagger. I have felt the charms of many a fair woman before, but none ever had power to move me as did that helpless girl last night as I carried her to her home. She is an angel, Claude, with the face of a Madonna!"

"Well done, Charles!" exclaimed Claude, laughing. "I am glad to hear that you are caught at last. Hear him, Jacques; how delightful it is to hear him confess that he has felt his heart burn before now. But this is the one, only, and lasting affection. Ah! Charles, you are still a sad dog! In this same town six years ago I heard you swear that you would live and die true to the beautiful daughter of the Sieur des Ormeaux; in just one week you were on your knees to Cosette, the daughter of the drunken captain of a fishing smack; and in two months after that I saw you myself, in the shadow of Mont Royal, wildly gesticulating your undying devotion to the daughter of old Adario, that greasy potentate whose warriors were filled with awe at the imposing way in which you bellowed a 'Te Deum.'"

"Silence, Claude, or, by Heaven, I shall forget that we are sworn friends in love, in war, and in peace, and challenge you to fight as soon as I have finished with the fool whom I must now hasten to meet. Do not follow me, I beg of you; I would not have him think I had friends standing by to witness our struggle. Good-bye; and if I am not back in half an hour you will find an account of all my worldly possessions in an iron box, about six inches square, in my room at the old inn."

Without another word he strode away from them, and a few paces brought him to the end of the street, where the buildings ceased at the beginning of the neck of land known as "The Sillon," which connects St Malo with the mainland. At that time this strip of land was not nearly so wide as it has since become, and was merely a narrow causeway, protected from the encroachment of the tides by a stone wall on the side towards the sea. The two men followed him no further than the end of the street, and stood in the shadow of the last house, waiting to learn the result of the encounter.

"There goes the bravest fellow in France," said Claude, as they watched him disappear. "I only wish there were more like him. He was born to fight; and he has done so much of it that he has at last come to look upon a duel as a necessary part of his day's amusement. And the best thing about him is that he has killed fewer men than any other duellist in France. He has the heart of a child, and the arm of a giant. But hark! Stand close. His opponent comes this way. He is past. Listen! By Heaven, but they have lost no time. They are at it already. I only wish he had not insisted on our staying concealed. I would rather see him at sword play than watch an army in action. But what is that? A woman's scream, as I live!"

CHAPTER II

In order to explain the scream, it will be necessary to go back to the morning of the day on which this conversation took place. St Malo was looking its dingiest. A heavy rain had fallen during the night, and a mist clung to the muddy streets and grey walls till nearly noon. The little town, with its narrow thoroughfares and towering houses, was as gloomy as a city of the dead; foul odours rose on all sides, and would have been unbearable but for the cool breeze which swept in from the Channel, driving the mists and fog before it.

In one of the highest and most substantial houses two young women sat at the casement of an upper window. The house was a gloomy one, without adornment of any kind except an arched porch, over which was chiselled some motto, or emblem, that had become undecipherable from age. The room where the two girls sat was plain in its appointments, and badly lighted, though its sombreness was relieved by numerous feminine trifles scattered about, betraying the character and tastes of its occupants.

The elder of the two was Marguerite de Roberval, niece of the nobleman from Picardy to whom reference has already been made. She was about twenty-four, dark, and very beautiful, with masses of black hair crowning a well-set head, finely-cut features, and a figure which, even as she sat on the low window-seat, showed tall and willowy. Her beauty would have been flawless but for one defect—her chin was a shade too prominent, giving her face an expression of determination, which, while destroying its symmetry, told of a strong will, and a firmness amounting almost to obstinacy. She had the lithe grace of a panther, and though her repose was perfect, a close observer might have noticed a nervous tension in her attitude and bearing that told of a hidden force and energy resolutely controlled.

At her feet, on a wide-spreading rug, sat her friend and companion, Marie de Vignan—in many ways her exact opposite. Not so dark as Marguerite, nor quite so tall, with a face inclined to be more round than oval, bright, well-opened eyes, and a merry, laughing mouth, her plump figure and vivacious expression bespoke a happy, contented nature, on whom the world and life sat lightly. She had come from Picardy with Marguerite, and was, indeed, the ward of De Roberval. Her father had been killed by a bursting petronel a few years before, and had left his only child to the charge of his friend and comrade-in-arms.

"Heigh-ho!" said Marie, with a half-suppressed yawn, "will this fog never lift? Who would have thought, after the glorious moon of last night that we should have such a day as this on the morrow?"

"Patience, chérie," replied her friend, looking up from the embroidery on which she was engaged. "We have had many such mornings since we came here, but they only make the day seem brighter when the sun does shine out. See, there is the blue sky beyond the housetops! The full sun will doubtless be out ere noon. I often think a wise Providence must send all this mist and rain. If some such means were not taken to cleanse these streets, we should soon not be able to breathe the air of St Malo. I cannot understand what has taken possession of my uncle to leave our broad acres in Picardy for these wretched streets and bare, gloomy walls."

"It is delightful, Marguerite, to hear you complaining. I have been wondering how