lips were sweetly curved and her nose delicately shaped. As she bent over me, I could see the rounded curve of her bosom. One slim hand reached out and touched my cheek. It was like the touch of a falling rose petal.
In my dream I lay asleep, yet I was conscious of this lovely creature. I watched her through closed eyelids, and held my breath, hoping she would kiss me. It seemed as though I had never desired anything so much.
A half-smile hovered on her lips, but her eyes told me nothing. She leaned lower. A faint perfume pervaded my senses, and then I felt her lips upon my forehead. A great cold swept over me at her touch—swept me down, down into blackness, and I knew no more.
When I awoke, the sun was pouring through the opened curtains. I reached for a cigarette—my first conscious thought upon awakening—and not finding my case under the pillow, suddenly realized my new surroundings. At the same time, I remembered my dream. "Wrexler and his talk of a red-haired beauty is responsible for that," I thought as I clapped my hands.
De Lacy came in so quickly I knew he must have been waiting outside the door. He started when he saw the curtain of my bed had been opened. "Did you not pull them?" I asked.
He shook his head, I said no more, and the ceremony of my arising began.
When I had bathed in a great sunken tub—fortunately Diana de Poictiers had had her daily bath in the far-off time—I sought Wrexler.
Together we breakfasted, and then I announced to de Lacy that we wished to inspect the rest of the château. He led us to the left wing, and took us through suite after suite, Beautifully furnished, the château was a veritable treasure house. An antiquarian would have gone mad with delight.
I noticed that de Lacy had avoided two heavily built doors opposite the ballroom. When we had returned from our tour, I stopped before them, "And here?" I asked.
"The picture gallery, my lord," he responded unwillingly, and swung the doors open. There was an unhappy expression on his face.
The room was long and narrow, and the walls except for the windows were lined with portraits. We walked slowly down the length of the room, looking at the portraits of a dead and gone race.
"The former owners of the château?" I asked. De Lacy nodded.
Suddenly I looked at the part of the room facing the door which he had entered. At first we had been too far away to distinguish anything about it except that there was only one large painting hanging in the center. Now that I was nearer, I could see the painting, and I caught my breath in astonishment; for there was the portrait of the lady of my dream, smiling down on me.
Wrexler caught my arm, "That's the girl—the one I saw on the stairs."
"That is the portrait of Helene, Mademoiselle d'Harcourt, daughter of the Lord of Harcourt, who owned this château," de Lacy's voice broke in.
Wrexler and I exclaimed simultaneously, "But I" and "She is"
De Lacy looked at us strangely. "It is from her that the château got its new name Rougemont—Red Mountain. Before that, it was called Hotel d'Harcourt. Mademoiselle Helene was very beautiful, as you can see, Messieurs, and she had many suitors. At last, from among them, she chose an English lord. One of the discarded lovers, Black George—le Georges Noir—vowed that she should
