Now he recognised the voice. Its golden timbre brought back a young
girl's golden face and golden hair. It was summer, and the window with
the broken shutter was open. He was about to go to it, when a door of the
house opened, and a girl appeared. She was tall, with rich, yellow hair
falling loosely about her head; she had a strong, finely cut chin and a
broad brow, under which a pair of deep blue eyes shone-violet blue, rare
and fine. She stood looking down at the Fort for a few moments, unaware
of Pierre's presence. But presently she saw him leaning against the tree,
and she started as from a spirit.

"Monsieur!" she said--"Pierre!" and stepped forward again from the
doorway.

He came to her, and "Ah, p'tite Lucille," he said, "you remember me,
eh?--and yet so many years ago!"

"But you remember me," she answered, "and I have changed so much!"

"It is the man who should remember, the woman may forget if she will."

Pierre did not mean to pay a compliment; he was merely thinking.

She made a little gesture of deprecation. "I was a child," she said.

Pierre lifted a shoulder slightly. "What matter? It is sex that I mean.
What difference to me--five, or forty, or ninety? It is all sex. It is
only lovers, the hunters of fire-flies, that think of age--mais oui!"

She had a way of looking at you before she spoke, as though she were
trying to find what she actually thought. She was one after Pierre's own