"My good sir," said Edward Langdale, addressing the chief of the guard, whom he found conversing with two troopers whom he had not before seen,—"my good sir, I think it will be necessary for me to change my mode of travelling. I have just recovered from a severe illness, and am still weak. So much riding on horseback fatigues me, as you may see by my long sleep this day; and I would be glad if I could procure a coach. You can guard us as well, or better then than if we continue as we have begun. Why are you smiling?"

The last words had a slight tone of iritation in them; for Edward had remarked a previous smile with which the man had brought Lucette into his chamber, and he had arrived at that point on the road to love where one feels vexed at the very thought of any reflection upon a sweetheart's name or character.

But the soldier answered, civilly, "I was thinking, sir, that if you can, being sick and weak, keep such a tight hold as you did last night upon Guillaume Bheel's wrist, what sort of a grip you must take when you are well and strong. But, as to a carrosse, there is none in the village, and we shall have to send to Aligre, or Marans, as it is sometimes called, to get one; and Aligre is three leagues off. However, we can very well stop the night if you please."

"Well, have the kindness to send for one," said the youth: "there is a piece of gold for the messenger, and I will pay the owner well. Let it be here early,—by daybreak, if possible; for I am anxious to arrive at Nantes soon, as I shall certainly be liberated from this sort of captivity there."

It were vain to deny that the arrival of Lucette, while it relieved his mind considerably in one respect, embarrassed it considerably in another. Lucette was safe; but could he answer that she would continue so? What was he to do with her? What would become of her at Nantes if he were imprisoned there, or perhaps executed? All these questions he put to himself; and they were difficult to answer. Still, to treat the matter commercially, when he put down on the one side of the account all the difficulties and dangers, and on the other the happiness of knowing she was safe, and the delight of having her with him, he could not for the life of him think the balance was against him. But then it was evident that poor Lucette's disguise had not the effect of a disguise at all, and Edward was as thoughtful of her reputation as a prude. Oh, sweet delicacy of early youth, how soon thou art rubbed off in the grating commerce of the world! I fear me that it rarely happens—with men, at least—that the soft bloom remains on the plum a day after it is separated from the parent tree. Yet it was so with Edward still; for he had hitherto had to deal with the harder, not the softer, things of life; and his nascent love for Lucette rendered the feeling still more fine and sensitive. Sequiter Deum, however, could only be his motto; for at present he had no power over his own fate.

With these thoughts and feelings he returned to the door of the room where he had slept so long, and knocked for admission, which was given at once.

"She is getting quite well now," said the good landlady, "but you will have to stay here to-night, for she is too tired to go farther."

Edward explained that he had sent for a coach, which could not arrive till the following morning, and, sitting down beside Lucette, began to converse with her in English, while the landlady continued at the table listening to the strange language, and apparently trying if she could make any thing of it. In that tongue Lucette, whose sweet lips had regained their color and her beautiful eyes their sparkle, told him all that had happened to her since he had left her,—how, with anxiety and fear, she had remained in her place of concealment hour after hour till near the dawn of day,—how good Jacques BeauprÉ had tried to console and comfort her in vain, till at length suspense became unendurable, and she had determined to go forth and try to pass the royalist lines herself,—how Jacques had remonstrated,—how she had persisted, and how she had not gone three hundred yards before she was challenged, stopped, and taken to the little house occupied by Monsieur de Lude, who commanded in that quarter. Her companion, she said, had disappeared at the very moment of her own arrest, and she did not know what had become of him. Monsieur de Lude, however, was an elderly man and very courteous, who asked her a number of questions.

"And what, in Heaven's name, did you tell him, dear Lucette?" asked Edward.

"Not much," replied the sweet girl. "I determined at once that I would speak no French; and, as he could speak no English, he gained nothing from me. At length he put pen and paper before me, and made signs to me to write down who and what I was. I then wrote that I was your page, who had remained behind you, being frightened, but who, repenting of my cowardice, had come on, thinking to overtake you. The old gentleman sent for some of his officers who knew a little English; and between them they made out what I had written."

"Did you write my own name, dear girl?" asked Edward, with some anxiety.

"Nay," replied Lucette, "I wrote the name you told us was in your pass,—Sir Peter Apsley,—and I described you as well as I could. Then, to my great joy, I heard Monsieur de Lude say to the officers, 'I am afraid we have made a mistake in stopping him. That was clearly the cardinal's safe-conduct; and we must send the page after him. Richelieu dislikes too much as well as too little zeal; and, on my life, it is likely we shall be scolded for not having properly reverenced his signature.' I do think, dear Edward, I could have persuaded him to let us all go on our way, if I had dared to speak French to him; but, after having pretended not to understand a word, I was afraid."

Now, good casuists have clearly shown two things,—that it is perfectly justifiable to deceive on some occasions, and that we had better not do it on any. The present is a good elucidation. If ever a girl was justified in feigning, Lucette was so; but still she got nothing by it, except a long ride in the way she did not want to go, and she lost all the advantages of her little innocent trick by the very trick itself. So it seems to me, at least,—although there may be people who differ with me on the subject, and, if so, I beg to state that I will not enter with them into a further discussion of the subject, at least on paper.

One advantage, however, which neither Edward nor Lucette then knew, but which had accrued from her interview with Monsieur de Lude, was this: the officers had let the men understand that they were all very doubtful as to whether they had done right or wrong in ignoring the name of Richelieu—then becoming very terrible—written at the bottom of the safe-conduct, and that therefore the young gentleman and his suite were to be treated with the utmost respect and consideration. The soldiers who had escorted Lucette had communicated this to those who had guarded Edward Langdale, and the intelligence was not without a great effect upon men who knew that those who present themselves with agreeable intelligence find a good reception and often a reward, whereas those who come upon a blundering errand get kicks for their only recompense.

To return to my story, however. I will not dwell upon the passing of that night. As far as Edward and Lucette were concerned, it passed as properly and as decently as possible; and, if any one suspects the contrary, it is the fault of his own imagination. The next morning, though not exactly at day-break, the coach—or carrosse, as the people called it—arrived from Marans, and all was soon ready for departure. Edward and his pretty page took their seats within. Pierrot, mounted, led one horse beside the carriage; one of the guards led another, and the whole cortÈge set out for Nantes at a brisk pace of three miles an hour, or thereabouts. There are other countries in the world where one can still go at the same pace; but, as Nantes was about ninety miles distant, it was very evident three days must be consumed in the journey. Now, it was very pleasant to Edward Langdale to sit side by side with Lucette, especially when, by way of emphasis to any thing of particular importance he was saying, he took her soft little hand in his; indeed, it often rested there quite tranquilly for full ten minutes; and, as he had no inclination to arrive at Nantes at all, he certainly did not hurry the horses. Youth has the power of removing evil days,—of multiplying the intervening hours; and the first part of the journey was very sweet to both, although the gloomy-looking Nemesis of Nantes was still before them. But, after SevignÉ was passed, and Marans, where they only stopped to water the horses, the two young people began to think seriously—somewhat sadly—of the future, and to consider whether it would not be both prudent and possible to escape. Now, this change of thoughts and purposes probably took place from the simple fact of both being refreshed and reinvigorated by repose; but, certainly, things began to seem quite practicable to Edward, and even very feasible, which had before seemed impossible, or highly perilous. The country now became fertile in windmills, country-houses, and canals, and Edward proposed to get out and ride a little. Lucette gazed at him timidly with a "do-not-leave-me" look; but he explained to her that he was going to sound the leader of their escort, and she made no opposition. He was soon mounted, and rode forward with the good Bertinois, saying, in a gay tone, "I am not going to run away."

The man made no reply till they were out of ear-shot of the rest; but then he answered, "If you did, monsieur, I should not try to stop you; but others might."

There was so much gained. "Perhaps the others may be out of the way at some place upon the road," said Edward, "and I dare say we might slip away easily without being noticed."

He looked keenly in the man's face as he spoke; but the soldier did not move a muscle.

"Perhaps such a thing might be done," said the man, after pausing for a moment or two. "We were not told to watch you very closely; and during one of the nights it would not be very difficult; but of course you do not intend to try."

"I am not very fond of going to Nantes," said Master Ned.

"Why?" asked the soldier, with an air of great simplicity.

"First, because it is out of my way," answered Edward; "secondly, because I have no clothes with me, and I should have to appear at the court; and thirdly, because probably before I get to Nantes my purse, which is not now very full, will probably be emptier by a thousand livres."

The reason last assigned seemed to have some weight with the man: "It is bad to have an empty purse," he said. "But come, sir, these cannot be your only reasons. I wish you would give one which might touch an honest man and a loyal servant of the king."

A bright thought struck Edward at that moment. He knew not whether the man was trying to entrap him into a confession of some sinister design, or whether in good faith he sought—as many a man will do—an excuse to himself for acting as he wished. Now, it was evident that Lucette's disguise was of no avail,—that the soldier himself knew that she was no page, and that the truth would be made manifest at Nantes. Riding closer to him, therefore, he said, in a low and confidential voice, "It is not for myself I so much care; but cannot you comprehend that I have got one with me whom I would not have discovered for the world?"

"Whew!" cried the soldier, with a long whistle: "I see! I see!" and then, holding out his hand to Edward, he added, "Count upon me, monsieur; count upon me. I can manage the other men. But how happens it that neither of you have any baggage? Sapristi! you must have come away in a great hurry; and you are both very young."

"The baggage was left with my other servant, who stayed behind but was to follow soon. I trust it is at Niort by this time."

A conversation of an hour's length ensued; in the course of which Edward Langdale convinced himself that his companion was sincere in his professions; and at the end of that time he returned to the carriage, carrying with him hope nearly touching joy.

The party were now entering, or had entered, upon a tract of country singular in its nature, its aspect, and its habits. It is called Les marais, (the marshes,) and, as it may perhaps have something to do with our story, it must have a very brief description. This might be difficult to give, as I have never seen more than the extreme verge of the district; but, luckily, at my hand lies the account of one who knew it well, had passed long months there, and who lived much nearer the times of which I write. Thus he speaks:—"The inhabitant of the marshes is taller than the inhabitant of the plain: he is stouter; his limbs are more massive; but he wants both health and agility. He is coarse, apathetic, and narrow in his views. A cabin of reeds, a little meadow, some cows, a boat,—which serves him for fishing, and often for stealing forage along the river-banks,—a gun to shoot wild fowl, are all his fortune, and his only means of subsistence. Exposed continually at his own fireside to all sorts of maladies, his constitution must be very strong not to give way entirely. His food is barley-bread mixed with rye, abundance of vegetables, salt meat, and curds. His habitual drink is the water of the canals and ditches,—a source of innumerable maladies. The agricultural proprietors, or great farmers, known by the name of Cabiners, (cabaniers,) lead a very different life, and do not deny themselves any of the comforts they can procure.

"The inhabitants of this picturesque abode appear, at first sight, the most wretched of mankind. Their cottages of brush and mud are covered with reeds. Unknown to the rest of the world, upon a tongue of land of from twenty-five to thirty paces wide, they live in the depths of inaccessible labyrinths, with their wives, their children, and their cattle. The silence of these swampy deserts, which is only broken by the cry of the water-fowl, the mysterious shadow spread over the canals by the intertwined boughs above them, the paleness and miserable air of the people, that narrow border which seems to place an immense interval between them and all mankind, the sombre hue of the landscape,—all inspire at the first glance a painful and melancholy feeling, which it is difficult to get rid of. But, on penetrating into the interior, the freshness of these cradles, the meanderings of these water paths, the innumerable varieties of birds one meets at every step and which one meets nowhere but there, cause the first sensations to be followed by a feeling of peaceful retirement, which is not without its charm."

Such was the scene, or rather the country, upon which Edward and Lucette entered just as the sun was within half an hour of setting, when every little ridge or hillock cast a long blue shadow upon the brown moor, and the many intricate canals and little rivers acted as mirrors to the glories of the western sky, flashing back the last red rays, as if rubies were dissolved in the calm waters. It was a fine country to escape in.