for the Demoiselle de Puysange; and, to himself, he swore gloomily that
if she had a mind to Hugues she must have Hugues, come what might.
Having reached this conclusion, Adhelmar wheeled upon his men, and
cursed them for tavern-idlers and laggards and flea-hearted snails, and
bade them spur.

Melite, at her window, heard them depart, and heard the noise of their
going lapse into the bland monotony of the rain's noise. This dank night
now divulged no more, and she turned back into the room. Adhelmar's
glove, which he had forgotten in his haste, lay upon the floor, and
Melite lifted it and twisted it idly.

"I wonder--?" said she.

She lighted four wax candles and set them before a mirror that was in the
room. Melite stood among them and looked into the mirror. She seemed very
tall and very slender, and her loosened hair hung heavily about her
beautiful shallow face and fell like a cloak around her black-robed body,
showing against the black gown like melting gold; and about her were the
tall, white candles tipped with still flames of gold. Melite laughed--her
laughter was high and delicate, with the resonance of thin glass,--and
raised her arms above her, head, stretching tensely like a cat before a
fire, and laughed yet again.

"After all," said she, "I do not wonder."

Melite sat before the mirror, and braided her hair, and sang to herself
in a sweet, low voice, brooding with unfathomable eyes upon her image in
the glass, while the October rain beat about Puysange, and Adhelmar rode
forth to save Hugues that must else be hanged.