forehead, his face was overcast like the sky above them; but though
his features seemed to contract with the pain of an intolerably bitter
memory, no tears came to his eyes. Like all men of strong character,
he possessed the power of forcing his emotions down into some inner
depth, and, perhaps, like many reserved natures, he shrank from laying
bare a wound too deep for any words of human speech, and winced at the
thought of ridicule from those who do not care to understand. M.
d'Albon was one of those who are keenly sensitive by nature to the
distress of others, who feel at once the pain they have unwillingly
given by some blunder. He respected his friend's mood, rose to his
feet, forgot his weariness, and followed in silence, thoroughly
annoyed with himself for having touched on a wound that seemed not yet
healed.

"Some day I will tell you my story," Philip said at last, wringing his
friend's hand, while he acknowledged his dumb repentance with a
heart-rending glance. "To-day I cannot."

They walked on in silence. As the Colonel's distress passed off the
Councillor's fatigue returned. Instinctively, or rather urged by
weariness, his eyes explored the depths of the forest around them; he
looked high and low among the trees, and gazed along the avenues,
hoping to discover some dwelling where he might ask for hospitality.
They reached a place where several roads met; and the Councillor,
fancying that he saw a thin film of smoke rising through the trees,
made a stand and looked sharply about him. He caught a glimpse of the
dark green branches of some firs among the other forest trees, and
finally, "A house! a house!" he shouted. No sailor could have raised a
cry of "Land ahead!" more joyfully than he.