His breath came quickly; in the dark his eyes shone; a tingling thrill of strange pleasure shot through him as his fingers touched the thing for which they were searching.

He drew the scarf out, and returned to the stove with it, crushing it in both his hands.

The sweetness of it came to him again like the woman's breath.

It was the sweetness of her hair, of the golden coils massed in the firelight; a part of the woman herself, of her glorious eyes, her lips, her face--and suddenly he crushed the fabric to his own face, and stood there, trembling in the darkness, while Jacques Pierrot slept and the storm wailed and moaned over his head.

For he knew--now--that he would do more for this woman than Jacques Pierrot could ever do; more, perhaps, than even the colonel, her husband, would do.