Josephine paused.

"You will forgive me if I ask you to let me go on alone, and you
follow with Jean?" she whispered. "I will try and see you again
to-night, when I have dressed myself, and I am in better condition
to show you hospitality."

Jean was so close that he overheard her. "We will follow," he said
softly. "Go ahead, ma cheri."

His voice was filled with an infinite gentleness, almost of pity;
and as Josephine drew her hand from Philip's and went on ahead of
them he dropped back close to the other's side.

"Something will happen soon which may turn your heart to stone and
ice, M'sieur," he said, and his voice was scarce above a whisper.
"I wanted her to tell you back there, two days ago, but she shrank
from the ordeal then. It is coming to-night. And, however it may
effect you, M'sieur, I ask you not to show the horror of it, but
to have pity. You have perhaps known many women, but you have
never known one like our Josephine. In her soul is the purity of
the blue skies, the sweetness of the wild flowers, the goodness of
our Blessed Lady, the Mother of Christ. You may disbelieve, and
what is to come may eat at the core of your heart as it has
devoured life and happiness from mine. But you will love L'Ange--
our Josephine--just the same."

Even as he felt himself trembling strangely at Jean Croisset's
words, Philip replied: