"Now may God grant that I may meet him!"
"You'll find him a gallant officer," answered the sturdy old Englishman proudly.
"When I think of his father I know that to be true," was the polite rejoinder.
The little Countess sank down on the chair, buried her face in her hands and burst into tears.
"Well, of all the——" began the Englishman, but the Frenchman checked him.
"Mademoiselle," he said softly, "were every tear a diamond they could not make for me so precious a diadem as they do when I think that you weep for me. I wish you joy with your English captain. I am your humble servant ever."
And Laure d'Aumenier felt very much comforted by those words. It was absurd, inconceivable, impossible, of course, and yet no handsomer, braver, truer, more considerate gentleman had ever crossed her horizon than this descendant of an ancient line of self-respecting, honorable yeomen. She contrasted him with Captain Yeovil, and the contrast was not to Marteau's disadvantage! No, decidedly not!