the final deadly stab to the heart of the man she loved.
Hers was the nature born to abnegation: aye! and one destined to find bliss therein. And when one glance in Paul Déroulède's face told her that she was forgiven, her cup of joy at seeing him happy beside his beloved, was unalloyed with any bitterness.
It was in the beautiful, rosy dawn of one of
the last days of that memorable Fructidor, when
Juliette and Paul Déroulède, standing on the
deck of the Daydream, saw the shores of
France gradually receding from their view.
Déroulède's arm was round his beloved, her golden hair, fanned by the breeze, brushed lightly against his cheek.
"Madonna!" he murmured.
She turned her head to him. It was the first time that they were quite alone, the first time that all thought of danger had become a mere dream.
What had the future in store for them, in that beautiful, strange land to which the graceful yacht was swiftly bearing them?
England, the land of freedom, would shelter their happiness and their joy; and they looked out towards the North, where lay, still hidden in the arms of the distant horizon, the white cliffs of Albion, whilst the mist even now was wrapping in its obliterating embrace the shores
