"Are you still presuming to----" "As man looks toward the sun that gives him life," said the young Frenchman, "so I look toward mademoiselle.

But have no fear, monsieur," he went on to the English dragoon, "you have won her heart.
I envy you but----" "Marteau!" protested the Countess, the anguish in her soul speaking in her voice again.
How different the appearance of this slender, pale, delicate young Frenchman from the coarser-grained English soldier to whom she had plighted her troth, but to whom she had not given her heart.

There was no doubt in her mind as to where her affections pointed.

Some of the pride of race, of high birth and ancient lineage, had been blown away in the dust of the revolution.

She had played too long with the plain people on the ancient estate.