She ventured to glance up at him. With his lean, strong face to the sun, his lithe body swinging rhythmically to his stride, he looked like an Indian chieftain. So he would have stalked through virgin forests.

So, under different conditions, she might have been following his lead.

But conditions were as they were. That is what she must keep in mind.

He was here merely to escort her safely to Italy and to the steamer in which she was soon to sail for home. He was being decent to her, as under the same conditions he would be to any woman. He could scarcely do less than he was doing. She was forced upon him.

That he apparently took pleasure in the episode was natural enough. It was just the sort of experience he enjoyed. It was another pleasant excursion like the motor trip from Paris, with a touch of adventure added to give it spice. Possibly in his present mood there was also a trace of romance. Monte had his romantic side, based upon his quick sympathies. A maiden in distress was enough to rouse this. That was what happened yesterday when he told her of his love. He had been sincere enough for the moment, and no doubt believed everything he said. He had not given himself quite time enough to get back to his schedule. With that in good running order he would laugh at his present folly.

For she must remember that Monte had not as yet touched either the heights or the depths of love. It was in him to do that, but she must see to it that he did not. That was her task. Love as he saw it now was merely a pleasant garden, in May. It was a gypsy jaunt along the open road where it was pleasant enough to have her with him as he whistled along. A day or a week or a month or two of that was well enough, as he had said. Only she--she could not last that long.

To-day and to-morrow at the utmost was as much as she could endure, with every minute a struggle to whip back her emotions. Were it safe, she would try to keep it up for his sake. If without danger she could keep him happy this way, not allowing him to go any further, she would try. But there is a limit to what of herself a woman may sacrifice, even if she is willing.

So, with her lips set, she stumbled along the Cornice Road by his side.

At five that evening they had made half their journey and stopped at a wayside inn--the inn of L'Agneau dansant. On a squeaking sign before the ancient stone structure, which looked as if it must have been there in the days of post-chaises, a frolicsome lamb danced upon his hind legs, smiling to all who paused there an invitation to join him in this innocent pastime and not take the world too seriously. The good humor of the crude painting appealed to Monte. He grinned back at L'Agneau dansant.

"I'm with you," he nodded.

Marjory, dusty and footsore, followed his gaze.

Then she too smiled.

"That fellow has the proper spirit," he declared. "Shall we place ourselves in his care?"

"I'm afraid I can't go any farther," she answered wearily.

Monsieur Soucin came out, looking to be in anything but the mood of the gay lamb before his door.

"Two rooms, a little supper, and some breakfast," explained Monte.

"But we must strike a bargain. We are not American tourists--merely two travelers of the road without much gold and a long way to go."

"I have but a single louis d'or," put in madame.

"Monsieur! Madame!" interrupted Soucin. "I am sorry, but I cannot accommodate you at any price. In the next village a regiment of soldiers have arrived. I have had word that I must receive here ten officers. They come at seven to-night."

"But look here--madame is very tired," frowned Monte.

"I am sorry," answered Soucin helplessly.

Monte stepped nearer and jingled the gold in his pocket.

"Doubtless the next village in that case is without accommodations also," said Monte. "We will strike no bargain. Name your price up to ten louis d'or; for madame must rest."

Soucin shook his head.

"I am giving up my own room. I must sleep in the kitchen--if I sleep at all; which, mon Dieu, is doubtful."

"Supposing we had arrived yesterday, would you have turned us out to-night?"

"The inquiry was made how many rooms I had, and I answered truthfully."

Madame had sunk down on a bench by the door. Monte stared up the road and down the road. There was no other house in sight.

"You could not find a bed for madame even for ten louis d'or?"

"Not for a thousand, monsieur. If there are no beds, there are no beds."

Yet there was room enough thereabouts. Behind the inn an olive orchard extended up a gentle incline to a stone wall. Over this the sun was descending in a blaze of glory. A warm breeze stirred the dark leaves of the trees. A man could sleep out of doors on such a night as this.

Monte turned again to the man.

"The orchard behind the house is yours?" he asked.

"Yes, monsieur."

"Then," said Monte, "if you will spare us a few blankets, madame and I will sleep there."

"Upon the ground?"

"Upon the blankets," smiled Monte.

"Ah, monsieur is from America!" exclaimed Soucin, as if that explained everything.

"Truly."

"And it is so the Indians sleep, I have read."

"You have read well. But we must have supper before the officers arrive. You can spare some bread and cheese?"

"I will do that."

"Then make it ready at once. And some coffee?"

"Yes, monsieur."

Monte returned to madame.

"I have engaged two rooms in the olive orchard," he announced.

CHAPTER XXIX

BENEATH THE STARS

The situation was absurd, but what could be done about it? France was at war, and there would be many who would sleep upon the ground who had never slept there before. Many, too, in the ground. Still, the situation was absurd--that Marjory, with all her thousands of dollars, should be forced to sleep out of doors. It gave her a startling sense of helplessness. She had been before in crowded places, but the securing of accommodations was merely a matter of increasing the size of her check. But here, even if one had a thousand louis d'or, that would have made no difference. Officers of the Army of France were not to be disturbed by the tinkle of gold. With a single gold-piece, moreover, one could not even make a tinkle.

She went into the inn to tidy herself before supper; but she hurried back to Monte as quickly as possible. Out of sight of him she felt as lost as a child in a forest. She had nothing to lean upon now but him.

Without him here she would scarcely have had even ident.i.ty. Her name, except as signed to a check, meant nothing. To have announced herself as Miss Marjory Stockton, or even as Madame Covington, would have left the soldiers of France merely smiling. To her s.e.x they might have paid some deference, but to her s.e.x alone. She was not anything except as she was attached to Monte--as a woman under the protection of her man.