inspection.  Down there in the valley the river choosing its leisurely
course northward to the Seine, and beyond it the harlequin
checkerboard of vine and meadow, the sentinel poplars, and to the
east-ward the blue hills that sheltered Ivry-la-Bataille.  Tiny
villages, each with its slender campanile, made incidental notes of
life and color and here and there, afar, the tall chimneys of
factories stained the sky.  About them in the nearer fields were
hay-wagons and workers, men and women, their shouts and songs floating
up the hill refined and mellowed by the distances.

Hermia took the air into her lungs, and surveyed the landscape.

"All this," said Markham, "is yours and mine--you see, when you have
nothing, everything belongs to you."

She laughed.

"You won't dare to put that philosophy to the test.  There's a
delicious odor of cooking food.  If everything belongs to me, I'll
trouble you for the contents of that coffee-pot."

"Not hungry already--!"

"Frightfully so.  I haven't eaten for ages."

He looked at his watch.

"It's only eleven, but of course--"

"Oh, don't let me interfere with your plans."

"You don't.  I have no plans.  We'll go into camp at once."

They descended the hill and after a while found a secluded spot near
the river bank.  Markham quickly unstrapped the donkey's pack and to
Hermia's surprise drew forth a loaf of bread, some cheese, and a bottle
of red wine which he set out with some pride on a flat rock near by.

"This," he announced, "is our _djeuner ˆ la
fourchette_.  I won't apologize for it."

"Wonderful man!  Somehow you remind me of the sleight-of-hand performer
producing an omelette from a silk hat.  I don't think I've ever been
really hungry before in my life."

He opened the bottle with the corkscrew on his pocket-knife and watched
her munching hungrily at the rye-bread.

"Half the pleasure in life, after all, is wanting a thing and getting
it," he observed.  "How can you want anything if you've already got it?"

"I can't," she mumbled, her mouth full, "unless perhaps it's this
bread."

He passed the bottle to her and she drank from it sparingly, passing it
to him again.

"Every wine is a vintage if you're thirsty enough," he added.  "The
trouble with our world is that most of its people are always about half
full of food.  You can't really enjoy things to eat or things to drink
unless you're quite empty.  It's the same thing with ideas.  You can't
think very clearly when you're half full of other people's biases."

"Or their b-bread and ch-cheese!" she said, choking.  Further than that
she did not reply at once.  The reasons were obvious.  But she munched
reflectively, and when she had swallowed:

"If all your arguments are as convincing as your fare, then you and I
shall never disagree," she said.

Clarissa, for that was the name she had given the beast, was turned
loose in the meadow.  Markham sat beside Hermia on the warm rock, and,
between them, without further words, they finished both the wine and
the food.  Markham filled his pipe and stretched out at full length in
lazy content while she sat beside him, brushing the dried cakes of mud
from her skirt and stockings.

"Well, here we are across the Rubicon," she said at last.

He nodded.

"Are you sorry?"

"No, not in the least.  I'm more astonished than anything else at the
ridiculous simplicity of my emancipation.  Yesterday at this hour I
was a highly respectable if slightly pampered person with a shrewd
sense of my own importance in the economic and social scheme; to-day
I'm a mere biped--an instinct on legs, with nothing to recommend me
but an amiable disposition and an abnormal appetite.

"You've made progress," he laughed lazily.  "Yesterday you lisped
knowingly of devil-wagons.  You weren't even a biped.  I'll admit it's
something to have discovered the possession of legs."

"I do.  And it's something more to have discovered the possession of an
appetite."

"And still something more to discover a means to gratify it," he
grunted.

If he sought to intimidate her, he failed of his object, for she only
laughed at him.

"Oh, I shall not starve.  Presently you shall hear me practice with my
orchestra.  Just now, _mon ami_, I'm too delightfully sleepy to think
of doing anything else."

"Sleep, then."

He laid his coat on the rock, and she sank back upon it, but not to
close her eyes.  They were turned on a squadron of clouds which sailed
in the wide bay between the forest and the hilltop.  Markham, leaning
on an elbow, puffed at his pipe in silence.  She turned her head and
looked at him.

"It's curious--" she began, and then passed.

"What is--curious?"

She laughed.

"Curious with what little ceremony I threw myself on your mercy;
curious that you've been so tolerant with me; curious that--you've no
curiosity."

"I never believe in being curious," he laughed.  "When you're ready,
you'll tell me and not before.

"About what?"
"About young Armistead, for instance."

"We disagreed.  He insisted on marrying me."

"That was tactless of him."

"You know it was only a trial engagement, and it _was_--a trial--to
both of us."

Markham grinned.

"You've relieved my mind of one burden, at least," he said.  "I like
Reggie.  He's a nice boy.  But I haven't any humor to find him poking
around in these bushes with a shotgun."  "Oh, there's no danger of
that," she replied demurely, oblivious of his humor.  "Reggie and I
have parted."

Markham's eyes were turned upon the clouds.  "That's rather a pity--in
a way," he said quietly.  "I thought you were quite suited to each
other.  But then--" and he surprised a curious look in her yes "--if
you were going to marry Reggie, you see, you couldn't be here--and I
would be the loser."

"I don't see that that would have made the slightest difference," she
replied rather tartly, "provided I had not married him."

"Oh, don't you?" he finished with a smile.

"No, I don't.  And I don't believe you when you way that you think
Reggie and I were sited to each other.  Because if you thought I was
the kind of girl to be satisfied with Reggie, you wouldn't have thought
it worth while to make a vagabond of me."

His brows drew downward.  "I haven't made a vagabond of you--not yet."

She examined his face steadily.

"You mean--that you don't believe me to be sincere?"

He didn't reply at once.

"I won't quibble with you, Hermia," he said in a moment.  "You've paid
me a pretty compliment by coming with me out here.  But I'm not going
to let it blind my judgment.  You were hopelessly bored--back there.
You've admitted it.  You felt the need of some other form of
amusement--so you chose this.  That's all."

Hermia straightened and sat with her hands clasped around her knees,
looking at vacancy.  "That's unkind of you," she said quietly.

"I don't mean it to be unkind," he went on softly.  "I don't deny the
genuineness of your impulse.  But you mustn't forget that you and I
have grown up in different schools.  I'm selfish in my way as you are
in yours.  I choose this life because I love it better than anything
else, because it's my idea of contentment.  I've approached it
thoughtfully and with a great deal of respect, as a result of some
years of patient and unsuccessful experiment with other forms of
existence.  That's the reason why I'm a little jealous for it, a
little suspicious of your sudden conversion."

[Illustration:  "Even Clarissa stopped her grazing long enough to look
up."]

"You have no right to doubt my sincerity--not yet," she said.

"No," slowly.  "Not yet.  I'm only warning you that it isn't going to
be easy--warning you that you will be placed in positions that may be
unpleasant to you, when our relations may be questioned--"

"I've considered that," quickly.  "I'm prepared for that.  I will do
what is required of me."

He took her hand and held it for a moment in his own, but she would not
look at him.

"Hermia--"

"What, Philidor?"

"You're not angry?"

"Not in the least.  I'm not a fool--"

Suddenly she sprang down the rock away from him, and, before he knew
what she was about, had fastened her "orchestra" around her and was
making the air hideous with sound.  He sat up, swinging his long legs
over the edge of the rock, watching her and laughing at the futile
efforts of her members to achieve a concert.  Even Clarissa stopped
her grazing long enough to look up, ears erect, eying the musician in
grave surprise, and then, with a contemptuous flirt of her tail, went
on with her repast.

"Everyone knows a donkey has no soul for music," laughed Hermia, in a
breathless pause between efforts.

"Meaning me?"

"Meaning both of you," said Hermia.  "Wait a moment."

She tuned her mandolin, and, neglecting the harmonica, in a moment drew
forth some chords and then sang:

/*
"Sur le pont d'Avignon
L'on y danse, l'on y danse,
Sur le pont d'Avignon
L'on y danse tout en rond."
*/

And then, after a pause, with an elaborate curtsey to Clarissa:

/*
"Les beaux messieurs font comme a
Et puis encore comme a."
*/

"The Pont d'Avignon?" he laughed with delight.  "Bravo, Yvonne!"

"Now perhaps you'll believe in me."

"I do.  I will.  Until the end of time," he cried.  "Once more now,
with the drum _obbligato_."

She obeyed and found it difficult because every time her elbows struck
the drum her fingers flew from the mandolin.  But she managed it at
last, and in the end made shift to use the harmonica, too.

Then followed "The Marseillaise."  That was easier.  The air had a
swing to it, and she managed both the drum and the cymbals.  But it was
warm work and she stopped for a while, rosy and breathless.

"What do you think?"

"Oh, magnificent.  Yvonne Deschamps--_Femme Orchestre, Messieurs et
Dames_, queen of the lyrical world, the musical marvel of the century,
artist by appointment to the President of the RŽplublique
Franaise and all the crowned heads of Europe.  How will that
do?"

"Beautifully.  And you--what will _you_ do?"

"I-- Oh, I will pass the hat."

She laughed.  "So!  You intend to live in luxury at my expense.  No,
thank you, Monsieur Philidor.  I'm doing my share.  You shall do
yours.  I'll trouble you to keep your word.  You shall paint portraits
at two francs a head."

"I didn't really intend--"

"You shall keep your promise," she insisted.

"But, Hermia, I--"

"There are no 'buts'!" she broke in.  "A moment ago you indulged in
some fine phrases at the expense of my sincerity.  Now look to yours.
We'll have an honest partnership--an equal partnership, or we'll have
no partnership."

He rubbed his head reflectively.

"Oh, I'll do it, I suppose," he said at last.

She laughed at him and resumed her practicing, making some notable
improvements on her first attempts and adding "_Mre Michel_"
and "_Au Claire de la Lune_," "_Le Roi Dagobert_" to her
rŽpertoire.

"Where on earth did you learn that?" he asked in an entr'acte.

"At school--in Paris."

"And the mandolin?"

"A parlor trick.  You see, I'm not so useless, after all."

Presently, when she sat beside him to rest, he brought out a pad and
crayon and made a drawing of her in her cap and bells.  He began a
little uncertainly, a little carelessly, but his interest growing, in
a moment he was absorbed.

Whatever knowledge of her had been hidden from him as a man, it seemed
suddenly revealed to the painter now.  The broad, smooth brow which
meant intelligence, the short nose, which meant amiability, the
nostrils well arched, which meant pride, the first rounded lips, which
meant sensibility, the sharp little declivity beneath them and the
squarish chin, which meant either willfulness or determination (he
chose the former), and the eyes, gray blue, set ever so slightly at an
angle, which could mean much or nothing at all.

"Do you see me like that?" she laughed when it was finished.  "I'm so
glad.  You _can_ draw, can't you?"

He held out his palm.  "Two francs, please."

She put the sketch behind her back.

"Oh, no, Monsieur.  Not so fast.  You shall give me this for the sake
of my _belle musique_.  Is not that fair?"

"But I've taken rather a fancy to it myself."

"We'll compromise," and she stuck it up on a crevice of the rock, "and
hang it on the wall of the dining-room."

Another rehearsal of Hermia's program, longer this time and with a
greater care for details; and then Markham looked at his watch, knocked
out his pipe, and reported that it was time they were on their way.

Half an hour later they had reached a fork of the road.

"Which way now, _camarade_?" cried Hermia, who was leading.  Markham
examined the bushes, the trees, and the fences.  He stood for a moment
looking down at a minute object by the side of the road, a twig, as
Hermia saw, broken in the middle, the open angle toward them.

"What does that mean?" she asked.

"It's the _patteran_," he replied, "and it points to the west road."

And so to the westward they went.


CHAPTER XIV

THE FABIANI FAMILY

The walking was easier now.  It was blither, too.  Hermia's
achievements in a musical way had given her confidence.  If Madame
Bordier's defunct niece had been the best _Femme Orchestre_ in the
Eure, there was no reason why Hermia shouldn't fit into her reputation
as comfortably as she fitted into her post-humous garments.  Clarissa,
too, jogged along without her bridle, and Markham found little use for
the goad he had whittled to save the use of the halter.  The people on
the road looked at them curiously, passed a rough jest, and sent them
on the merrier.  Markham had destroyed his road map and now they
followed the _patteran_, leaving their destiny to fortune.  In the
late afternoon, on their way through a forest, Clarissa suddenly
halted and, in spite of much urging, refused to go on.  Hermia took
the halter and Markham the goad, and after a while they moved slowly
forward, the donkey still protesting.  A scurrying in the underbrush,
and several dogs appeared, barking furiously.  Their offensiveness
went no further than this, however, and in a moment Markham made out
the bulk of a _roulette_ in the shadows of the wood, the shaggy
specter of a horse, a camp-fire, and a party of caravaners.  There was
a strip of carpet laid out near the fire upon which a small figure,
clad only in an undershirt and a pair of faded red trunks, was busily
engaged in wrapping its legs round the back of its neck.  The cause of
Clarissa's unhappiness was also apparent; for chained to a sapling
nearby, rolling its great head foolishly from side to side, sat a tame
bear.

There were greetings as the newcomers approached, the dogs were called
off, and a burly man rose and came to the roadside to meet them.

"_Bona jou_," he said, smiling, his teeth milk white under his stringy
black mustache.  Markham returned the salutation.  The caravaner
glanced at Hermia's costume and swept off his hat.

"You go to Alenon for the fte?" he asked in very bad French.

Markham nodded.  It was easier to nod than to explain just now.  The
big man smiled again and pointed to the fire with a gesture of
invitation.  After a glance at Hermia, in whose face he read
affirmation, Markham assented, and urging the unwilling donkey, he and
Hermia followed their host down the slope and into the glen.

The small figure on the carpet, which had not for one moment ceased its
contortions, now consented to unwind its limbs and stand upright; and
in this position assumed definite form as a slender slip of a girl,
about twelve years of age.  A man and a woman with a baby rose and
greeted them.  The introductions were formal.  They had fallen, it
seems, upon the tender mercies of the Fabiani Family of Famous
Athletes.  The big man tapped his huge chest.

"_Moi_!" he announced with pardonable pride.  "I am Signor Cleofonte
Fabiani, the world's greatest wrestler and strong man.  Here," and he
pointed to the others, "is Signor Luigi Fabiani, the world's greatest
acrobat; there Signora Fabiani, world famous as a juggler and hand
balancer; Signorina Stella Fabiani, the child wonder of the twentieth
century."

He recited this rapidly and with much more assurance than his ordinary
command of French had indicated, giving complexion to the thought, as
did his gestures, that this was his public confession.  Not to be
outdone in civility, Markham replied:

"Mademoiselle--" he paused and changed her title to "Madame" (a
discretion which the others acknowledged with nods of the
head)--Madame was Yvonne Deschamps, Premir lady musician of
the world, who played five separate and distinct musical instruments
at one and the same time--an artist known, as the Signor would perhaps
be aware, from Sicily to Sweden, from Brittany to the Russias.

Hermia bowed.

As for himself, he was Monsieur Philidor, the lightning portrait
artist, of Paris.  Likenesses, two francs--soldiers, ten sous.

Signor Fabiani was glad.  _Madonna mia!_  It was not often that such
persons met.  Would the visitors not join him at a pitcher of Calvados
which was not cooling in the stream?

Markham fastened Clarissa's halter to the wheel of the _roulette_ near
the shaggy horse, and joined Hermia, who was already at her ease by
the fire and playing with the _bambino_.  They were a jolly lot and
made a fine plea for Markham's philosophy of content.  Signor Fabiani
brought the pitcher from the stream and Luigi cups from the
house-wagon, and there they all sat, as thick as thieves, drinking
healths and wishing one another a prosperous pilgrimage.  The Fabiani
family had never been to Alenon.  This was one of the few
parts of the world into which their fame had not yet spread.  All the
more their profit and glory!  _Sacro mento_!  They would see what they
would see.  He, Cleofonte Fabiani, would snap heavy chains about his
chest.  He would put a great stone on his stomach, and, while he
supported himself on his feet and hands, Luigi would break the stone
with a sledge hammer.  He, Cleofonte Fabiani, would lift her far above
his head, tossing her to Luigi, who would catch her upon his
shoulders.  And the Signora meanwhile would juggle with a piece of
paper, an egg, and a cannonball.  _O Jesu_!  They should see!

He stopped and looked at Hermia.  A _Femme Orchestre_!  In all his
travels in Italy he had never seen one.  The signora was an _artista_,
though.  That was clear.  One only had to look at her to see that.  He
would listen with delight to her music.  And Signor Philidor--would
Signor Philidor do his portrait?  He would pay--

He straightened, put his enormous hand upon his chest, elbow out, and
took a dramatic pose of the head.  He was wonderful.  Markham at once
fetched his sketching materials and drew him, while the others crowded
about, looking over the shoulders of Monsieur Philidor, and watched
the feat accomplished.  Not until it was done was Cleofonte permitted
to see.  It would spoil the pose.

And then!  _Che magnifico pitture_!  It was nothing short of a
miracle!  The nose perhaps a little shorter--but _Madre Dio_!  what
could one expect in twenty minutes!  Did not the mustache need a
little smoothing?  Upon the morning of the performance it was
Cleofonte's custom to dress it with pomatum.  The cap, the earrings,
the mole upon his cheek--everything was as like as possible.  _Si_,
Monsieur Philidor was a great artist--a very great artist.  He,
Cleofonte Fabiani, said so.

But when Philidor took the sketch from his pad and presented it to
Cleofonte with his compliments, the athlete's delight knew no bounds.
He shoed his teeth, and stood first upon one foot and then upon the
other, the sketch held before him by the very tips of his stubby
fingers.  The Signora, relinquishing the _bambino_ to Hermia, looked
over his shoulder, more pleased, even, than he.  After that nothing
would do but that the visitors must stay for supper.  Nothing much--a
soup, some rye bread, peas, and lettuce, but, if they would
condescend, he, Fabiani, would be highly honored.  Hermia accepted
with alacrity.  She was hungry again.  Markham smiled and glanced up
at the smiling heavens, unfastened Clarissa's pack, and brought out a
roasted chicken cold, a loaf of bread, a new tin pot, and a bag of
coffee, which he brought to the fireside.

The Signora insisted on preparing the meal, so Markham filled his pipe
and helped Hermia to amuse the _bambino_.

"You will pardon?" said Fabiani.  "But this is the hour of practice,
while the supper is preparing.  Luigi, Stella, we will go on if you
please."

The child rose, rather ruefully, Hermia thought, and took her place
upon the mat, where, under Luigi's direction, she went through the
exercises which were to keep her young limbs supple for the
approaching performances.  It was the familiar thing--the slow bending
of the back until the palms of the hands touched the ground, in which
position the child walked backward and forward, the contortions of the
slender body, the "split," the putting of the legs around the neck.
Hermia had seen these acts at the _VariŽtŽs_ and at
Madison Square Garden when the circus came, but had seen them at a
great distance, under a blaze of light, as part of a great spectacle
in a performance which went so smoothly that one never gave a thought
to the difficulty of achievement.  There in the silent shadows of the
wood, bared of its tinsel and music, the rehearsal took on a different
color.  She saw the straining muscles of the child, the beads of
perspiration which stood on her brow, the livid face with its tortured
expression.  An exclamation of pity broke from her lips.  "Is it not
enough?" she asked.  Cleofonte only laughed through his cigarette
smoke.  It seemed like a great deal, he said.  She had not had her
practice yesterday.  It would be still easier to-morrow.  And then he
signaled for the performance to be repeated.  At last Hermia turned to
the _bambino_ and would look no more.  She was tasting life, other
people's, at the springs, as John Markham had promised, and it was not
sweet.

There was a brief rest, after which Luigi and Stella did an acrobatic
performance of tumbling and balancing in which at the end Cleofonte
joined with a masterful air, punctuating the acts with cries and
handclaps, and at the end of each act they all bowed and kissed the
tips of their fingers right and left to the imaginary audience.  The
rehearsal ended in applause from the visitors.  As for the Signora,
having put the coffee on to boil, she was not nursing the _bambino_.
Cleofonte came up, puffing and blowing and tapping his chest.  "The
performance is ended," he exclaimed, "in tricks with Tomasso--that is
the name of my bear--and in great feats of strength, as I have told
you, after which I make my great wrestling challenge, to throw any man
in the world for one hundred francs.  _Madre de Dio_!  You can be sure
that when they see Luigi break the stone upon me--they are not zealous."

The baby bed and fast asleep, it was put to bed in the wagon and they
all sat at supper.  The delight Hermia had taken in her new
acquaintances--Fabiani's bombast, Luigi's grace, and the Signora's
motherly perquisites--had lost some of its spontaneity since she had
seen the expression on the face of the child Stella, when she had gone
through her act of _dŽcarcasse_.  It haunted her like the
memory of a bad dream and brought into stronger contrast her own
girlhood in New York, with its nurses and governesses and the
sheltered life she had led under their care and supervision.

And when Stella, her slim figure wrapped in a shabby cloak, came from
the _roulette_ and joined them at the fire, Hermia motioned her to the
place beside her.  When she sat, Hermia put an arm around the child
and kissed her softly on the brow.  Stella looked up at her timidly
and then put her sinewy brown hand in Hermia's softer ones and there
let it stay.  Hermia had made a friend.

Cleofonte looked up from his chicken bone and shook his huge shoulders.

"You are sorry, Signorina?  _Jesu mio_!  So am I.  But what would you
have?  One must eat."

"It seems a pity," said Hermia, smiling.

Fabiani shrugged his shoulders and raised his brows to the sky, with
the resignation of the fatalist.  "It is life--_voilˆ tout_."

The soup was of vegetables, for which the Fabiani family had not paid,
but it was none the less nourishing on that account.  The chicken, a
luxury, for which for many days the palate of the Fabiani family had
been innocent, was acclaimed with joy and dispatched with magic haste.
The cheese, the rye bread, and the salad were beyond cavil; and the
coffee--of Monsieur Duchanel's best--made all things complete.

The dusk had fallen, velvety and odorous, and the stars came peeping
shyly forth.  Fabiani, who for all his braggadocio did not lack a
certain magnificence, had insisted that the visitors remain in camp
for the night.  Madame should sleep in the house-wagon with the
Signora Fabiani, Stella and the baby.  Were there not two beds?  As
for Monsieur Philidor--he knew a man when he saw one.  The night was
heaven sent.  Monsieur should sleep as he and Luigi slept--_ˆ
la belle Žtoile_.

Hermia's cover for the night assured, Markham had accepted the
invitation, and now, all care banished for at least twelve hours, they
sat in great good fellowship before the fire, listening to Cleofonte's
tales of the road.  They forgave him much for his good heart and at
appropriate moments led in applause of his prowess and achievements.
When the conversation lagged, which it did when Cleofonte grew weary,
Hermia brought forth her _orchestre_ and played for them; first the
tunes she had practiced and afterward, as she gained new confidence in
their appreciation, "Santa Lucia" and "Funiculi, funicula," to which
Cleofonte, who had a soul for concord, roared a fine basso.  It was a
night for vagabonds, carefree, a night of laughter, of mirth and of
song.  What did it matter what happened on the morrow?  Here were
meat, drink and good company.  Could any mortal ask for more?

After a time, the din awakening the _bambino_, the Signora went to
bed, and Hermia, her hand in Stella's, followed to the wagon.  The
animals fed and watered, Markham settled down by the fire with his
newly found friends and lit a pipe.  In a moment Luigi had fallen back
on his blanket and was asleep.  Markham was conscious that Fabiani
still talked, but he had already learned that it was not necessary to
make replies, and so he sat, nodding or answering in monosyllables.  A
warm breeze sighed in the tree tops, the rill tinkled nearby, and a
night bird called in the distance.  The glow of the fire painted the
trunks of the trees which rose in dim majesty to where their branches
held eyrie among the stars.  The chains of the bear still clanked as
he rolled to and fro until a gruff "Be silent, thou!" from Cleofonte
brought quiet in that direction.  After a while even Cleofonte grew
weary of his own voice, his head fell upon his breast, and he sank
prone and slept.

Markham sat for a long while, his back against the bole of a tree,
pipe in mouth, gazing into the embers of the fire.  He had brought the
tarpaulin which covered the donkey's pack, and Cleofonte had provided
him with a blanket, but he seemed to have no desire to sleep.  The
smile at his lips indicated that his thoughts were pleasant ones.
Hermia had learned something to-day--would learn something more
to-morrow, and yet she had not flinched from the school in which he
was driving her.  If he had thought by hardship to dissuade her from
her venture, it seemed that he had thus far missed his calculations.
Indeed, each new experience seemed only to make her relish the keener.
She was drinking in impressions avidly, absorbing the new life as a
sponge absorbs water, differing from this only in the particular that
her capacity for retention had no limitations.  He smiled because it
pleased him to think that his judgment of her character had not been
at fault.  Hers was a brave soul, not easily daunted or discouraged,
better worthy of this life which was teaching its stoicism, charity
and self-abnegation than of that other life which denied by
self-sufficiency their very existence--a gallant spirit which for once
soared free of the worldly, venal and time-serving.  It pleased him to
think it was by his means that she had been bought into his valley of
contentment and that thus far she had found it pleasant.  Would the
humor last?

Fabiani snored, as he did everything, from the depths of his being,
and Luigi, in the shadows, echoed him nobly.  Markham looked toward
the _roulette_.  The lantern which had burned there a while ago had
been extinguished.  Strangely enough, although it was his custom to be
much alone, Markham wanted company.  He wished at least that Hermia
had bade him good night.  It was curious how quickly one fell into the
habit of gregariousness.  He and Hermia had fared together but for one
day, and yet he already felt a sort of material dependence upon her
presence.  It was the habit of interdependence, of course--he
recognized it, the same habit which led men and women in droves to the
cities, to herd in the back streets of the slums when the clean vales
of the open country awaited them, sweet with the smells of shrub and
clover, where one could lie at one's length and look up as one should
at the stars, lulled by the song of the stream or the whistle of the
south wind in the-- His head nodded and his pipe dropped from his
teeth.  Heigho! he had almost been asleep.

He rose and spread his tarpaulin upon the ground.  As he did so a dry
twig cracked nearby, a dog growled, and presently a small phantom
emerged from the shadows.  It was Hermia, with a finger laid upon her
lips in token of silence.

"Couldn't you sleep?" he whispered.

"No.  It was a pity to crowd them, so when Stella got to sleep I came
away."

He laid a log upon the fire, and made a place for her beside him.