"
The girl turned a little pale. She was passing a hot iron over some
coarse sheets, and, pausing, she looked steadily at him and replied:
"It is not far to Dalgrothe Mountain, monsieur."
"The journey's too long for me; I haven't your hot young blood," he said
suggestively.
"It was not so long a dozen years ago, monsieur." De la Riviere flushed
to his hair. That memory was a hateful chapter in his life--a boyish
folly, which involved the miller's wife. He had buried it, the village
had forgotten it,--such of it as knew,--and the remembrance of it stung
him. He had, however, brought it on himself, and he must eat the bitter
fruit.
The girl's eyes were cold and hard. She knew him to be Valmond's enemy,
and she had no idea of sparing him. She knew also that he had been
courteous enough to send a man each day to inquire after Valmond, but
that was not to the point; he was torturing her, he had prophesied the
downfall of her "spurious Napoleon."
"It will be too long a journey for you, and for all, presently," he said.
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