"Get in," ordered Julio.

And she climbed in hastily, anxious to hide herself as soon as possible.
The vehicle started at great speed. Marguerite immediately pulled down
the shade of the window on her side, but, before she had finished and
could turn her head, she felt a hungry mouth kissing the nape of her
neck.

"No, not here," she said in a pleading tone. "Let us be sensible!"

And while he, rebellious at these exhortations, persisted in his
advances, the voice of Marguerite again sounded above the noise of the
rattling machinery of the automobile as it bounded over the pavement.

"Do you really believe that there will be no war? Do you believe that we
will be able to marry? . . . Tell me again. I want you to encourage me
. . . I need to hear it from your lips."



CHAPTER II

MADARIAGA, THE CENTAUR


In 1870 Marcelo Desnoyers was nineteen years old. He was born in the
suburbs of Paris, an only child; his father, interested in little
building speculations, maintained his family in modest comfort. The
mason wished to make an architect of his son, and Marcelo was in the
midst of his preparatory studies when his father suddenly died, leaving