"Had we not better be going?" she asked. "There is surely a storm gathering yonder."
"Yes," I answered, for I had not been indifferent to the clouds steadily banking up in the north. "Yet you have not told me your name, and I should be most glad to know it."
The girl courtesied mockingly, as though half inclined to laugh at my insistence.
"What is a name?" she exclaimed. "'Tis not that for which we greatly care. Now I—I am simply Mademoiselle Antoinette,—at least, so most of those I care for call me; and from now on, the very good friend of Master John Wayland."
I was deeply conscious that I blushed at her words and manner; but with it there arose an instant query in my mind: could this be the fair Toinette whom De Croix sought so ardently? I greatly feared it; yet I resolved I would not mention his name to her.
"It has a decided French sound," I stammered.
She laughed at my tone, with a quick shrug of her shoulders.
"And pray, why not, Monsieur? Have you such a prejudice against that great people that you need speak of them with so glum a voice? Ah, but if I must, then I shall endeavor to teach you a higher regard for us."
"That may not prove so hard a task," I hastened to assure her; "though I was surprised,—you speak English with so pure an accent that I had not dreamed you other than of my own race."
"My father was of English blood," she answered more gravely; "but I fear you will find me quite of my mother's people, if ever we come to know each other well. But hark! that was surely thunder! We have loitered too long; the storm is about to break."