"I don't know. I never knew him do a bad thing; I never heard of a bad
thing he has done; and--he has been good to you."

She paused, flushing as she felt the significance of her words, and
continued: "Yet there is--I cannot tell what. I feel something. It is
not reasonable to go upon one's feelings; but there it is, and so I do
not trust him."

"It is the way he lives, here in these lonely woods--the mystery around
him."

A change passed over her. With the first glow of meeting the object of
her visit had receded, though since her last interview with the Seigneur
she had not rested a moment, in her anxiety to warn him of his danger.
"Oh, no," she said, lifting her eyes frankly to his: "oh, no, Monsieur!
It is not that. There is mystery about you!" She felt her heart beating
hard. It almost choked her, but she kept on bravely. "People say
strange and bad things about you. No one knows"--she trembled under the
painful inquiry of his eyes. Then she gained courage and went on, for
she must make it clear she trusted him, that she took him at his word,
before she told him of the peril before him--"No one knows where you came
from . . . and it is nobody's business. Some people do not believe in
you. But I believe in you--I should believe in you if every one doubted;
for there is no feeling in me that says, 'He has done some wicked thing
that stands-between us.' It isn't the same as with Portugais, you see--
naturally, it could not be the same."

She seemed not to realise that she was telling more of her own heart than
she had ever told. It was a revelation, having its origin in an honesty