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It was dawn when Jack Marche galloped into the court-yard of the Château Morteyn and wearily dismounted. People were already moving about the upper floors; servants stared at him as he climbed the steps to the terrace; his face was scratched, his clothes smeared with caked mud and blood.

The dining-room was dark; he set his extinguished lantern on the table and lighted a lamp by the window, saying: "Pierre, tell the marquis I am here tell him I am to return to Morteyn by eleven Pierre, do you hear me? Where are you, then?" He raised his head instinctively, his hand on the lamp-globe.

Therefore he was his equal, and he liked him because he could hate him without loss of self-respect. The reason he hated him was this the Vicomte de Morteyn had pooh-poohed the balloons. That occurred years ago, but he never forgot it, and had never seen the old vicomte since. Whether or not Lorraine visited the old people at Morteyn, he had neither time nor inclination to inquire.

When his men had acquitted themselves with all the awkward sincerity of Lorraine peasants, he advanced with a superb bow and flourish, lifting his cap from his gray head: "In my quality of ex-pompier and commandant of the 'Terrors of Morteyn' my battalion" here he made a sweeping gesture as though briefly reviewing an army corps instead of a dozen wolfish-eyed peasants "I extend to our honoured and beloved Châtelaine de Nesville, and to our honoured guest, Monsieur Marche, the protection and safe-conduct of the 'Terrors of Morteyn."

Armies could be annihilated, granite and steel would be as tinder before a bomb or torpedo of picric acid dropped from the clouds. On the 10th of August, a little after five o'clock, Jack left Lorraine on the terrace at Morteyn to try once more to see the marquis for Lorraine's sake.

Amused by the young fellow's doubt that a simple salon on the first floor might not be commensurate with the hospitality of Morteyn, Archibald Grahame stepped pleasantly to the other side of the road; and so, with Lorraine between them, they climbed the terrace and scaled the stairs to the little gilt salon where Lorraine's maid Marianne and the old house-keeper sat awaiting her return.

The old vicomte came back with his wife and sat in the library with them, playing chess until luncheon was served; and after that Lorraine went away to embroider something or other that Madame de Morteyn had for her up-stairs. A little later the vicomte also went to take a nap, and Jack was left alone lying on the lounge, too lonely to read, too unhappy to smoke, too lazy to sleep.

"I was invited, as you probably know, Monsieur Marche; but I did not go, and doubtless the old vicomte is saying, 'I wonder why Lorraine does not come? and Madame de Morteyn replies, 'Lorraine is a very uncertain quantity, my dear' oh, I am sure that they are saying these things." "I think I heard some such dialogue yesterday," said Marche, much amused. Lorraine raised her head and looked at him.

And he kissed her white hands and led her to his wife, murmuring, "Helen, what shall we do with the little bad one who never comes to bid two old people good-day?" "Ah, Lorraine!" said Madame de Morteyn; "kiss me, my child."

"Monsieur Marche, do you think that Lieutenant Carrière may come to Morteyn?" "He said he would; I er I hope he will. Don't you?" "I? Oh yes. When will he come?" "I don't know," said Jack, sulkily. "Oh! I thought you were very fond of him and that, of course, you would know when " "Nobody knows; if he's gone with the army into Germany it is impossible to say when the war will end."