CHAPTER XI.

TO SAMAC.

Many of the village folk were still lounging in the street and the clatter of the horses’ heels brought out more to gape and stare in wonderment as we clattered past. We were nearing the end of the place when I caught sight of a church with a mean-looking presbytery by the side.

I checked my horse, rode to it, and asked for Father Michel. A tall white-haired priest came out; kind-faced, with remarkable eyes almost black, under black brows. A man to trust certainly.

“You are Father Michel?”

For answer he turned his searching eyes upon me, paused and said: “You will be Burgwan?”

“Yes. And you know why I come.”

“On the contrary, I was in the act of coming to you.”

“Is she here?” I did not know how to speak of Mademoiselle; but he understood instantly. He patted my horse’s neck and looked up with sympathy in his manner and glance.

“You will let me speak with you?”

“Is she here?” I repeated.

“She wished me to see you. We arranged that she should go and that I should give you her messages. You will come into my house?”

“No, I cannot wait. She is gone to Samac. I shall ride after her. I must see her.”

“You are suffering,” he said, with that soothing comfort-offering air which is the priceless possession of many women and some good men. “You will let me give you her messages?”

“I cannot wait,” I said again; and yet I lingered.

“Will it ease your own pain to make her suffer?” The question made me wince; and I shirked the answer to it.

“She _has_ gone to Samac?”

“Yes, she has driven to Samac. There is plenty of time for you to listen to me and then to overtake her before she can leave there.”

“She was to come to me,” I said, with a glance of doubt at this. It might be another ruse. He saw the doubt instantly.

“You may believe me. I do not wish to detain you if you prefer to go, and should not stoop to a trick.” He stepped back and waved his hand as if to signify I was free to go, and added: “It is only for her sake.”

He knew the strength such a plea would have for me.

“I must see her. I will.”

He threw up his hands with a gesture of pain.

I half wheeled my horse round to start and then checked him.

“Why did she go in this way?”

Again he turned those wonderful eyes of his upon me, and answered slowly:

“If you do not know I must not tell you. She has gone out of your life altogether--altogether. It is her own doing; her own will and wish and doing. Let her go.”

“I will not,” I exclaimed almost fiercely.

“Have patience and the strength of a man, Burgwan. You have acted nobly to her, offering your life in her defence. She cannot repay you. She knows that, and I know it. Add chivalry to your courage, and spare her.”

“She told me to wait for her--in that letter, I mean; and yet before it was in my hands, she had gone away.”

“The sweetest pleasure in life as well as the noblest quality in man is self-denial, Burgwan; and in your case it is real prudence and wisdom as well.”

“But she bade me wait for her,” I repeated.

“Not in Poabja, Burgwan. She bade me get from you your name and the means of communicating with you if ever----”

“Then it was a mere trick of words,” I cried with angry unreason. “I shall follow her;” and without waiting for him to reply I rode off quickly. I think I was afraid to trust myself longer with him; afraid lest he should prevail with me; afraid lest the fierce consuming desire to look once more upon her face should be chilled by the appeals to my better nature which he knew how to make so shrewdly.

Already he had made me conscious of the stubborn selfishness of my purpose; and as I galloped along, I sought to stifle the feeling with specious palliation and anger. She had no right to treat me in this way. I had done nothing and said nothing to deserve it. She had run away under the cover of a mere trick and ruse. And so on.

But I could not shake off the impression of the priest’s words, “Will it ease your own pain to make her suffer?” The question haunted me. I could find no answer to it in my own thoughts, just as I had found none in speaking with him. Out of it came the chilling conviction that the