At the door the colonel lingered, leaning against his great horse and
stroking its shoulder thoughtfully with a gloved finger.

"Mademoiselle," he said at length.

"Yes," answered Denise, looking at him so honestly in the face that he
had to turn away.

"I want to ask you," he said slowly, "to marry me."

Denise looked at him in utter astonishment, her face suddenly red, her
eyes half afraid.

"I do not understand you," she said.

"And yet it is simple enough," answered the colonel, who himself was
embarrassed and ill at ease. "I ask you to marry me. You think I am too
old--" He paused, seeking his words. "I am not forty yet, and, at all
events, I am not making the mistake usually made by very young men. I do
not imagine that I love you--I know it."

They stood for a minute in silence; then the colonel spoke again.

"Of what are you thinking, mademoiselle?"

"That it is hard to lose the only friend we have in Corsica."

"You need not do that," replied the colonel. "I do not even ask you to
answer now."