"What does it matter now?" she murmured. "What does anything matter--after this?"

"You will marry me--soon?" he urged her.

She sighed softly and laid her hand in his.

"Whenever you want me to," she said, with eloquent simplicity.

"To-morrow?"

She smiled mischievously.

"I must, I think, Philidor. Would you have me compromised?"

He laughed happily.

"Yes. Compromised by reverence, pilloried by tenderness--"

"Not reverence, Philidor. I'm only a little devil, after all."

"Then devils are angels in Vagabondia. Your wings are white, Hermia."

"They're trailing now--"

"Brave wings--fluttering--weary of flight. They shall fly no more--"

"Not alone--broader ones shall bear them company."

A pause.

"After to-morrow--shall we go?"

"Afoot, Philidor--as before."

And then. "Poor Clarissa!"

He laughed. "You shall have her."

She started up in delight.

"You mean that you--?"

"Clarissa is languishing in a stable in Paris>"

She spoke of Cleofonte and the Signora.

"We must find them, too, Philidor. And Stella--I promised her. We must do something for Stella."

It was growing late. There was a sound in the thicket behind them.

They started up and were confronted by the _ancien_, who hobbled toward them, with his stick and lantern, like _Diogenes_ searching for an honest man.

"G.o.d be praised!" he croaked. "You are here. We feared you might have fallen among the rocks."

"Among the roses, Pre Gu?gou. _Thy_ roses--" said Yvonne, her hand in Philidor's.

The old man stared at them witlessly, then turned and lighted them upon their way.

The End