Thirty years; yet her face had lost to him not a single detail; for there are some faces which print themselves so indelibly upon the mind that they become not elusive like the memory of an enhancing melody or an exquisite poem, but lasting, like the sense of life itself.

And Margot, daughter of his own miller--she had loved him with all the strength and fervor of her simple peasant heart.

And he?
Yes, yes; he could now see that he had loved her as deeply as it was possible for a noble to love a peasant.

And in a moment of rage and jealousy and suspicion, he had struck her across the face with his riding-whip.
What a recompense for such a love! In all the thirty years only once had he heard from her: a letter, burning with love, stained and blurred with tears, lofty with forgiveness, between the lines of which he could read the quiet tragedy of an unimportant life.

Whither had she gone, carrying that brutal, unjust blow?
Was she living?
.