"From the river? Can you?"
"Yes--the trees are cut away north of the boat-house. Look! I told you so. My father is there alone."
Far away in the night the lights of the Château de Nesville glimmered between the trees, smaller, paler, yellower than the splendid stars that crowned the black vault above the forest.
After a silence she reached out her hand abruptly and took the telegram from between his fingers. In the starlight she read it, once, twice; then raised her head and smiled at him.
"Are you going?"
"I don't know. Yes."
"No," she said, and tore the telegram into bits.
One by one she tossed the pieces on to the bosom of the placid Lisse, where they sailed away towards the Moselle like dim, blue blossoms floating idly with the current.
"Are you angry?" she whispered.
He saw that she was trembling, and that her face had grown very pale.
"What is the matter?" he asked, amazed.
"The matter--the matter is this: I--I--Lorraine de Nesville--am afraid! I am afraid! It is fear--it is fear!"
"Fear?" he asked, gently.
"Yes!" she cried. "Yes, it is fear! I cannot help it--I never before knew it--that I--I could be afraid. Don't--don't leave us--my father and me!" she cried, passionately. "We are so alone there in the house--I fear the forest--I fear--"
She trembled violently; a wolf howled on the distant hill.
"I shall gallop back to the Château de Nesville with you," he said; "I shall be close beside you, riding by your carriage-window. Don't tremble so--Mademoiselle de Nesville."
"It is terrible," she stammered; "I never knew I was a coward."
"You are anxious for your father," he said, quietly; "you are no coward!"
"I am--I tremble--see! I shiver."
"It was the wolf--"
"Ah, yes--the wolf that warned us of war! and the men--that one who made maps; I never could do again what I did! Then I was afraid of nothing; now I fear everything--the howl of that beast on the hill, the wind in the trees, the ripple of the Lisse--C'est plus fort que moi--I am a coward. Listen! Can you hear the carriage?"
"No."
"Listen--ah, listen!"
"It is the noise of the river."
"The river? How black it is! Hark!"
"The wind."
"Hark!"
"The wind again--"
"Look!" She seized his arm frantically. "Look! Oh, what--what was that?"
The report of a gun, faint but clear, came to their ears. Something flashed from the lighted windows of the Château de Nesville--another flash broke out--another--then three dull reports sounded, and the night wind spread the echoes broadcast among the wooded hills.
For a second she stood beside him, white, rigid, speechless; then her little hand crushed his arm and she pushed him violently towards the horses.