CHAPTER X.CLON.
'You!' she cried, in a voice which pierced my heart.

'You are M.de Berault?
It is impossible!' But, glancing askance at her--I could not face her I saw that the blood had left her cheeks.
'Yes, Mademoiselle,' I answered in a low tone.

'De Barthe was my mother's name.

When I came here, a stranger, I took it that I might not be known; that I might again speak to a good woman, and not see her shrink.

That, and--but why trouble you with all this ?' I continued rebelling, against her silence, her turned shoulder, her averted face.
'You asked me, Mademoiselle, how I could take a blow and let the striker go.