"Blind--blind! Oh, the pitiful thing! Since when, mademoiselle?"

"Since the soldier fired on you-the shock. . . . "

The convict knelt at her feet. "Ah, mademoiselle, you are a good angel.
I shall die of grief. To think--for such as me!"

"You will live to love your wife and children. This is the will of God
with me. Am I in the path now? Ah, thank you."

"But, M. Laflamme--this will be a great sorrow to him."

Twice she seemed about to speak, but nothing came save good-bye.
Then she crept cautiously away among the bushes and along the narrow
path, the eyes of the convict following her. She had done a deed which,
she understood, the world would blame her for if it knew, would call
culpable or foolishly heroic; but she smiled, because she understood also
that she had done that which her own conscience and heart approved, and
she was content.

At this time Laflamme was stealing watchfully through the tropical scrub,
where hanging vines tore his hands, and the sickening perfume of jungle
flowers overcame him more than the hard journey which he had undergone
during the past twelve hours.

Several times he had been within voice of his pursuers, and once a Kanaka
scout passed close to him. He had had nothing to eat, he had had no
sleep, he suffered from a wound in his neck caused by the broken
protruding branch of a tree; but he had courage, and he was struggling
for liberty--a tolerably sweet thing when one has it not. He found the