But I had not yet come in sight of Bonneval, when fearful misgivings began to assail me as to what might befall the Countess. I awoke to a full sense of my folly in yielding to her wish. Her own apparent confidence of safety had made me, for a time, feel there must be indeed small danger. I had too weakly given way to her right of command in the case. I had been too easily checked by respect for what private reason she might have for wishing to go on without company. I had played the boy and the fool, and if ever there had been a time when I ought to have used a man's authority, laughing down her protests, it had been when she rode away alone toward the forest.

I turned my horse about, resolved to undo my error as far as I might,—to go back and take the road she had taken, and not rest till I knew she was safe in the convent.

My fears increased as I went. What the country gentleman had said about robbers came back to my mind. I arrived at the junction of the roads, and galloped to the woods. Once among the trees, I had to proceed slowly, for the road dwindled to a mere path, so grown with grass as to show how little it was ordinarily resorted to. But there were horseshoe prints which, though at first I took them to be only those of the Countess's horse, soon appeared so numerously together that I saw there must have been other travellers there recently. I perceived, too, that the wood was of great depth and extent, and not the narrow strip I had supposed. It was, in fact, part of a large forest. I became the more disquieted, till at last, as the light of day began to die out of the woods, I was oppressed with a belief as strong as certainty, that some great peril had already fallen upon her I loved.

I came into a little green glade, around which I glanced. My heart seemed to faint within me, for there, by a small stream that trickled through the glade, was a horse grazing,—a horse with bridle and saddle but no rider. The rein hung upon the grass, the saddle was pulled awry, and the horse was that of the Countess.

I looked wildly in every direction, but she was nowhere to be seen. The horse raised his head, and whinnied in recognition of me and my animal, then went on cropping the grass. I rode over to him, as if by questioning the dumb beast I might learn where his mistress was. There was no sign of any sort by which I might be guided in seeking her.

I called aloud, "Madame! madame!" But there was only the faint breeze of evening among the treetops for answer.

But the horse could not have wandered far. Whatever had occurred, there must be traces near. My best course was to search the forest close at hand: any one of those darkening aisles stretching on every side, like corridors leading to caves of gloom, might contain the secret: each dusky avenue, its ground hidden by tangled forest growth, seemed to bid me come and discover. I dismounted, knowing I could trust my horse to stay in the glade, and, crossing the stream, explored the further portion of the path.

I came to a place where the underbrush at the side of the path was somewhat beaten aside. I thought I could distinguish where some person or animal had gone from this place, tramping a sort of barely traceable furrow through the tangle. I followed this course: it led me back to the glade. Doubtless the horse had made it.

I was about to go back along the path, when I noticed a similar trodden-down appearance along one side of the stream where it left the glade. Hoping little, I examined this. It brought me, after a few yards, to a clear piece of turf swelling up around the roots of an oak. And lying there, on the grassy incline, with her head at the foot of the oak, was the Countess, as silent and motionless as death, with blood upon her forehead.

My own heart leaping, I knelt to discover if hers still moved. Her body stirred at my touch. I dipped my handkerchief in the stream, and gently washed away the blood, but revealed no cut until I examined beneath the hair, when I found a long shallow gash. I hastily cleansed her hair of the blood as well as I could, with such care as not to cause the wound to flow anew. All the time I was doing this, my joy at finding her alive and free was such that I could have sobbed aloud.

She awoke and recognized me, first smiling faintly, but in a moment parting her lips in sorrowful surprise, and then, after glancing round, giving a sigh of profound weariness.

"Am I then still alive?" she murmured.

"Yes, Madame;—I thank God from my heart."

"It is His will," she said. "I had hoped—I had thought my life in this world was ended."

"Oh, do not say that. What can you mean?"

"When they surrounded me—the men who sprang up at the sides of the path—I thought, 'Yes, these are the robbers the gentleman spoke of,—God has been kind and has sent them to waylay me: if I resist, I may be killed, and surely I have a right to resist.' So I drew my sword, and made a thrust at the nearest. He struck me with some weapon—I did not even notice what it was, I was so glad when it came swiftly—when I felt I could not save myself. The blow was like a kiss—the kiss of death, welcoming me out of this life of sad and bitter prospects."

"Oh, Madame, how can you talk in this way, when you are still young and beautiful, and there are those who love you?"

"You do not know all, Henri. What is there for me in life? I am weak to complain—weak to long for death—sinful, perhaps, to put myself in its way, but surely Heaven will pardon that sin,—weak, yes; but, alas, I cannot help it,—women are weak, are they not? What is before me, then? I am one without a place in the world—without relations, without fortune. If I were a man, I might seek my fortune—there are the wars, there are many kinds of honourable service. But what is there for a woman, a wife who has run away from her husband?"

"But Madame, the convent,—you have a right to be maintained there. You can at least live there, till time annuls the Count's claims upon you. And then who knows what the future may bring?"

"The convent—I have told you I should be safe there, and so no doubt I should if I took the veil—"

"Nay, Madame, not that, save as a last resort!"

"Alas, I may not though I would. Do you think I should hesitate if I were free? How gladly I would bury myself from this world, give myself at once to Heaven! But that resource—that happiness—is forbidden me. My mother, as she neared death, saw no security for me but as a life-guest at a convent. Our small fortune barely sufficed to make the provision. But she did not wish me to become a nun, and as she feared the influence of the convent might lead that way, she put me under a promise never to take the veil. So I am without the one natural resource of a woman in my position."

"But do you mean that you will not be safe at the convent merely as a guest?"

"The Count may claim the fulfilment of his rights as a husband. He may use force to take me away. The Mother Superior cannot withhold me from him; and indeed I fear she would be little inclined to if she could, unless I consented to take the veil. Before the possibility of my marriage came up, she was always urging me to apply for a remission of the vow to my mother, so that I might become a nun. But that I would never do."

"But, Madame, knowing all this, how could you select the convent as your refuge, and let me bring you so far toward it?"

"Ah, Monsieur, what place in the world was there for me? And yet I had to go somewhere, that your life might be saved, and Mathilde's, and the happiness of poor Hugues. There was no other way to draw you far from that chateau of murder, no other way to detach Mathilde from one who could bring her nothing but calamity. And to-day, when I left you, I thought all this was accomplished, and I was free to go my way in search of death."

"Oh, Madame, if I had known what was in your mind! Then you did not mean to go to the convent?"

"I meant to go toward the convent. It is further away than I allowed you to suppose. I felt—I know not why—that death would meet me on the way. I felt in my heart a promise that God would do me that kindness. At first I had no idea of what form my deliverer would take. Perhaps, I thought, I might be permitted to lose my way in the forest and die of hunger, or perhaps I might encounter some wild beast, or a storm might arise and cause me to be struck by lightning or a falling bough, or I might be so chilled and weakened by rain that I must needs lie down and die. I knew not what shape,—all I felt was, that it waited for me in the forest. And when the gentleman spoke of robbers, I rejoiced, for it seemed to confirm my belief."

"And that is why you would not let me come with you?"

"Yes, certainly; that you might not be present to drive death away from me, or meet it with me. I hoped you would go on to Paris, thinking me safe, and that you would soon forget me. You see how I desire you to live, and how you can please me only by doing so."

"And so, when you were at last in the forest—?"

"At last in the forest, yes—I knew not how long I should have to ride, but I made no haste,—sooner or later it would come, I thought. The birds hopping about on the branches seemed to be saying to one another, 'See this lady who has come to meet death.' I crossed a glade, and something seemed to whisper to my heart, 'Yonder it lies waiting, yonder in the shades beyond that little stream.' So I went on, and true enough, before I had gone far, five or six rough men sprang out from the bushes. Two caught my reins, and one raised a weapon of some kind and bade me deliver up my purse. I had no purse to deliver, and I feared they might let me go as not worth their trouble. Then I thought they might hold me for ransom, or rob me of my clothes, and discover I was a woman. Surely I was justified in resisting such a fate; so I drew the sword you gave me, and made a pass at the man with the weapon. He struck instantly, before I could turn my head aside, and I had time only for a flash of joy that God had indeed granted me deliverance. I scarce felt the blow, and then all went out in darkness. I knew nothing after. How did I come here? This is not the place where I met the robbers."

"It is very strange," said I. "This is where I found you, only a little while before you came to life. I had searched the path, but I saw no robbers. They did not take your horse,—I found it in the glade yonder, where I have left mine with it. That must be the glade you crossed before they appeared."

"But how came you to be here? Ah, did you disregard my wish and follow me?"

"Not at first. No; I went on toward Paris as you bade me. But after awhile I too had a feeling of danger befalling you in this forest. It was so strong that I could not force myself to go on. So I rode back, hoping to come in sight of you and follow at a distance. I could not do otherwise."

"Ah, Henri, perhaps it is to you I owe the ill service of bringing me back to life. Who knows?—I might have passed quietly away to death here had you not come and revived the feeble spark left in me. I must have been unconscious a long time."

"Yes; thank God I arrived no later than I did. But why should the robbers have brought you here? They have not even taken any of your clothes. See, here is your sword, replaced in its scabbard; even your cap is here, beside your head—look where the villain's weapon cut through,—it must have been a sort of halberd. Why should they have brought you here? Do they mean to return, I wonder?"

I rose and looked around, peering through the dusky spaces between the trunks of the trees, and straining my ears. Suddenly, amidst the chatter of the birds returning to their places for the night, I made out a sound of distant hoof-beats.

"Horsemen!" I said. "But these robbers were on foot, were they not?"

"Yes; I did not see any horses about."

"Who can these be? There must be several!"

They were apparently coming from that part of the forest toward which the Countess had been riding. On account of the brushwood I could not see them yet.

"Well," said I, "we had best keep as quiet as possible till they pass. But they will see our horses in crossing the glade. No, that must not be. Wait."

I ran back to the glade, and finding the horses close together, caught them both, led them down the bed of the stream to where the Countess was, and made them lie among the underwood, trusting to good fortune that they would be quiet while the others were passing.

Soon I could see, above the underbrush that extended to the path beyond the brook, a procession of steel head-pieces, bearded faces, breastplates over leather jerkins, and horses' heads. There were six or seven men in all, one after another. I lay close to the earth and heard them cross the stream. And then, to my astonishment, they came directly along the stream by the way I had first come; I rose to my feet just in time to face the leader as he stopped his horse within a yard of me.

He gazed over the neck of his steed at me, and the Countess, and our two animals. He was a tall, well-made, handsome man, seasoned but still young, with a bronzed, fearless face.

"Good evening," said he, in a rich, manly voice. "So the youngster has come to his senses,—and found a friend, it appears."

"I don't exactly understand you, Monsieur," said I.

"You are not to blame for that," he replied good-humouredly. "It is true I met your young friend awhile ago, but as he was more dead than alive at that time, he couldn't have told you much. How is it with him now?"

"I am not much hurt, Monsieur," replied the Countess for herself.

"I scarce knew how I should find you when I returned," said the newcomer.

"Then you saw him here before, Monsieur?" said I.

"Yes; it was I who brought him here,—but, faith! he was in no condition to see what was going on. We were searching this forest on the King's business, when I heard something a little ahead, which made me gallop forward, and there I saw half-a-dozen ruffians around a horse, and one of them dragging this youth from the saddle. I shouted to my comrades and charged at the robbers. They dropped the lad, and made off along the path. I stopped to see to the young gentleman, and ordered my companions to pursue the rascals. The youngster, let me tell you, seemed quite done for. He had been struck, as you see, evidently just before he was pulled from the horse."

"Yes, Monsieur," said the Countess; "and I knew nothing after the blow."

"So it appeared," replied the horseman. "I saw that water was needed, and remembering this stream we had crossed, I carried you to this place and did what I could for you. But I had to go and recall my men,—I feared they might be led too far, or separated by the robbers running in different directions. That explains my leaving you alone. We have a piece of work in hand, of some importance, and dare not risk anything for the sake of catching those knaves."

"I suppose they are part of the band that haunts this forest," said I.

"No doubt. But this forest is at present the haunt of larger game. Those scoundrels escaped us this time—they were favoured by the dusk and the undergrowth. I was longer in catching up with my comrades than I had thought. But I see all has gone well with that young gentleman in the meantime."

"Yes, Monsieur. I, his brother, ought never to have allowed him to go on alone. But I was riding after, expecting to overtake him, when I came upon his horse; I supposed he must be near, and I was fortunate enough to seek in the right place. He shall not leave me again; and for us both I thank you more than my tongue can ever express."

"Pouf!—I did nothing. The question is, what now? My comrades and I have affairs to look after in the forest. We shall continue on the path where your brother met his accident, till we come to a certain forester's house where we may pass the night. Your direction appears to be the same, and you will be safe with us."

"Again I thank you, Monsieur," I said, "but we shall give up our journey through the forest. As soon as my brother feels able to ride, we shall go back to the highway and pass the night at some inn. I think we shall be safe enough now that you have frightened the robbers from this part of the forest."

The horseman eyed me shrewdly, and glanced at the Countess. It occurred to me then that he had known her sex from the first, and that he now trusted me with wisdom enough to judge best what I ought to do. So he delicately refrained from pressing us, as he had all along from trying to learn our secret. For a moment he silently twirled his moustaches; then he said:

"In that case, I have but to wish you good-night, and good fortune. I think you will be safe enough between here and the highway. Please do not mention that you have seen any of the King's guard hereabouts,—though I fear that news is already on the wing."

"What, Monsieur?—are you, then, of the King's guard?"

"We have the honour to be so."

"But I thought their uniform—"

"Faith, we are in our working clothes," said he, with a laugh. The next moment he waved us adieu, turned his horse about, and, his companions also turning at his order, followed them out of our sight.

"A very charming gentleman," said I, as the sound of their horses diminished in our ears.