before, neither thanks nor memory. You stay in Constantinople, I suppose?" she continued, with that ease which was almost cold—cold, at least, compared to the tumult of impassioned impulses, unconsidered thoughts, and newly-born emotions which were warm and eager in the heart of her listener. It checked him, it stung and chilled him.
"I am waiting for home despatches," he answered her; "I am a Queen*s courier, as you may have heard. You are living here?"
"Only for a while; some months, a few days, I do not know which it may be. You, who are so splendid an artist, must find constant occupation in the East?"
"I? I am little of an artist, save when my horse or my rifle are out of reach. We, of the old Border, rarely carved our names in any other fashion than by the sword."
She saw how little his thoughts were with his words, as she met again the burning gaze of eyes that told far more than he knew; their language was too familiar to her to move her as it would have moved a woman less used to its utterance; it was a tale so old to her! She sighed, a little impatiently, a little wearily; she was unutterably tired of love. What was intoxication to him was but a thousand-
