from his first glance at her, had fascinated, enthralled him:  his eyes fastened greedily on her every movement; he noted well her reception of those who had addressed her, and when he approached he came, bare-headed, with a low obeisance and a deferential air.  He seated himself by her in silence, after murmuring a few words of welcome to the feast, to which she made no answer.  Presently he spoke again, softly and courteously; she replied without constraint, speaking his own language fluently, though with a foreign accent.  The ice once broken their talk rippled on, as is the wont of light words, brightly uttered.  Jean drank in each gentle phrase, watched every graceful gesture; his heart bounded when she carelessly smiled.  But he lost not his daring:  when the musicians again struck up he boldly asked her to join in the dance.

She was not offended, her look showed no displeasure, but she refused; he renewed his request; suddenly a change came over her face, she looked rapidly round as though searching for some one who was not present, a flash came into her eyes, she sprang to her feet.  “Why should I not dance!” she said; “they are merry, why should I alone be sad!” She let him lead her into the ring.  If she had been enchanting when seated, what was her power when she moved!  She was a model of grace and loveliness; the contrast of her colouring to that of her neighbours inspired the superstitious with some terror, but made the braver spirits gaze more curiously, indifferent to the half-concealed anger and affected disdain of their partners.  Every moment she gained more hearts, though she let her eyes rest only on those of Jean.  After the dance was over she seated herself in her former position; the women then, according to custom, retired outside the stone circle, while the men clustered round the oak to award the prize.  The ceremony had up to this day been looked on as a pure formality:  for the last two summers the wreath had been by common consent placed on the brows of Suzanne Falla, and none who woke that morning had doubted that it would rest there again before night.  But now the men’s heads were turned; there was commotion both outside and inside the circle; then a hush, as the old men rose in their places and the young men formed a lane to the tree.  Jean stepped out, and taking the stranger by the hand, led her to where a white-haired veteran stood with the wreath in his hand.  The next moment it was placed on her brows, and then all voices burst into a song of triumph, which rang to the remotest glades of the forest.  Suzanne did not join in the song; her little heart was breaking; all the passion of her hot nature was roused; she felt herself unfairly, unjustly, treated; insulted on the very day that was to have crowned her pride.  She could not control herself, nor could she accept her defeat:  she stamped her foot on the ground, and poured out a torrent of objurgation, accusing Jean of treachery, demanding to know whence he had