played this unholy instrument were bound to no good place, and were sure to gain their port, in his opinion.  Being thus minded, it was with a shock of horror that he heard the sound of a fiddle in the street of his own village, not fifty yards from the meeting-house itself.  After a moment’s pause, he came wrathfully down the street; his height raised him a head and shoulders above the people who were ringed around the little musician, and he looked over their heads, with his arm raised to command, and his lips opened to forbid the shameful thing.  Then—­he saw Marie’s face; and straightway his arm dropped to his side, and he stood without speaking.  The children looked up at him, and moved away, for they were always afraid of him, and at this moment his face was dreadful to see.

Yet it was nothing dreadful that he looked upon.  Marie was standing with her head bent down over her violin, in a pretty way she had.  A light, slight figure, not short, yet with a look that spoke all of youth and morning grace.  She wore a little blue gown, patched and faded, and dusty enough after her day’s walk; her feet were dusty too, but slender and delicately shaped.  Her face was like nothing that had been seen in those parts before, and the beauty of it seemed to strike cold to the man’s heart, as he stood and gazed with unwilling eyes, hating the feeling that constrained him, yet unable for the moment to restrain it or to turn his eyes away.  She had that clear, bright whiteness of skin that is seen only in Frenchwomen, and only here and there among these; whiteness as of fire behind alabaster.  Her hair was black and soft, and the lashes lay like jet on her cheek, as she stood looking down, smiling a little, feeling so happy, so pleased that she was pleasing others.  And now, when she raised her eyes, they were seen to be dark and soft, too; but with what fire in their depths, what sunny light of joy,—­the joy of a child among children!  De Arthenay started, and his hands clenched themselves unconsciously.  Marie started, too, as she met the stern gaze fixed upon her, and the joyous light faded from her eyes.  Rudely it broke in upon her pleasant thoughts,—­this vision of a set, bearded face, with cold blue eyes that yet had a flame in them, like a spark struck from steel.  The little song died on her lips, and unconsciously she lowered her bow, and stood silent, returning helplessly the look bent so sternly upon her.

When Jacques de Arthenay found himself able to speak at last, he started at the sound of his own voice.

“Who are you?” he asked.  “How did you come here, young woman?”

Marie held out her fiddle with a pretty, appealing gesture.  “I come—­from away!” she said, in her broken English, that sounded soft and strange to his ears.  “I do no harm.  I play, to make happy the children, to get bread for me.”

“Who came with you?” De Arthenay continued.  “Who are your folks?”