The Countess still lay on the grassy couch beneath the oak. She seemed to have lost all will as to her course of action.

"I think best not to go with those guards," I explained after a moment. "For why should we travel their way without any destination? There is nothing for us now in that direction. After what you have told me, I dare not let you go to the convent."

"There is no place for me," she said listlessly. "Death has disappointed me, and left me in the lurch. I think this place is as good as another."

She closed her eyes for some moments, as if she would lie there till death came, after all.

"No," said I; "you must not stay here. Night is coming on: the chill and the dews will be harmful to you. Besides, there are clouds already blotting out some of the stars, and the wind is rising and may bring more. If there is rain, it may be heavy, after so many days of fine weather. It will soon be too dark to follow the path. We must be getting on."

"I am weak from this blow," she said,—rather as if for a pretext against moving, I thought. "I am not sure I could keep my saddle."

"I can carry you as I ride, if need be, and let your horse follow. Come, Madame, let us see if you can rise. If not, I will take you in my arms to the glade, where it will be easier to mount."

I stooped to support her, but she did not stir.

"But where am I to go?" she said. "Of what use to travel aimlessly from place to place? As you say, why should we ride on toward the convent without a destination? But where else have I a destination?"

"Listen, Madame. Is it not probable that after some weeks, or months, the Count, still disappointed of your taking refuge at the convent, will give up hope or expectation of finding you there? Will he not then withdraw his attention from the convent?"

"I suppose so."

"And can we not, if we take time, find means to learn when that becomes the case? Can we not, by careful investigation, make sure whether he is still watching the convent or whether he has an informant there? Can we not enter into communication with the Mother Superior, and find out what her attitude is toward you,—whether, if you returned, your residence there would be safe and kept secret? Surely she would not betray you."

"Oh, no; whatever attitude she took, she would tell me the truth."

"Then it is only necessary to wait a few months and take those measures, without letting your own whereabouts be known even to the Mother Superior."

"But meanwhile would you have me continue doing as I have done since my flight,—passing as something I am not, receiving the protection—living on the very bounty—of the one person in all the world from whom I should accept nothing? Why, Monsieur, if it were known—if no more than the mere truth were told—would it not seem to justify the Count de Lavardin?"

"I do not ask you to do as you have done. For only two or three days you need pass as a boy. You may then not only resume the habit of a woman, but enjoy the company and friendship of a woman as saintly as yourself. Your presence in her house must be a secret till affairs mend, but you may be sure that if her friendship for you were known, it would be a sufficient answer to anything your husband or the world might say against you."

"It is of your mother that you speak. But I told you before, it is not from you that I dare accept so much."

"It will be from my mother, who will believe me when I tell her the truth, and who will take you as her guest and friend for your own sake. As for me, my affairs in Paris will keep me from La Tournoire while you are there:—for consider, what I propose now is not what you refused that night we fled from Lavardin. I spoke then of your making La Tournoire your refuge for an indefinite time,—the rest of your life, if need be:—I speak now of your staying there only till your safe residence at the convent can be assured,—only a few months, or weeks."

Though I had begun and ended by speaking of the convent, I did so merely with the object of inducing her to go to La Tournoire. Once there, she would be under the guidance and persuasion of my mother, who could influence her to remain till the Count's death removed all danger.

"You must not refuse, Madame," I went on. "God has shown that He does not desire your death, and it must be His will that you should accept this plan, so clear and simple. Speak, Madame!"

"I know not.—I have no strength, no will, to oppose further. Let it be as you think best." The last vestige of her power of objection, of resolving or thinking for herself, seemed to pass out in a tired sigh.

"Good!" I cried. "Then we have but to regain the road and find some inn for the night. To-morrow we shall ride back to Chateaudun, or perhaps on to Bonneval, and then make for La Tournoire by Le Mans and SablÉ, which is to give a wide berth to Montoire and the road we have come by. Do you think you can rise, Madame?—Nay, wait till I lead the horses out."

I took the horses to the glade, then returned and found the Countess already on her feet, though with her hand against the tree, as she was somewhat dizzy. She walked with my assistance, and I helped her to her saddle,—she now thought herself able to ride without support. I mounted my own horse, grasped the halter of the other, and took the path for the highway.

"We are none too soon," said I, as we left the glade. "How dark the path is even now: I hope we shall be able to keep it."

Darkness came on more quickly than usual, because of the swift overclouding of the sky. Very soon I could not see two paces before me. Then blackness settled down upon us. My horse still went on, but slowly and uncertainly, with many a halt to make sure of footing and a free way. When I glanced back, I could not see the Countess, but I held the tighter to the halter of her horse and frequently asked if all was well. Her reply was, "Yes, Monsieur," in a faint, tired voice. I felt about with my whip for the trees at the side of the path, and thus was able to guide the horse when its own confidence faltered.

Instead of cooling, the air became close. Suddenly the forest was lighted up by a pale flash which, lasting but a moment, was followed after a time by a distant rumble of thunder.

"It is far away, Madame," said I. "It may not come in this direction, or we may be safely housed before it does."

"I am not afraid."

However, lest rain might fall suddenly, I stopped the horses, unrolled from behind my saddle a cloak which I had bought in Vendome, and put it around the Countess. We then proceeded as best we could. Slowly as we had gone, I began to think it time we should emerge from the forest; but another flash of lightning showed apparently endless vistas of wood on every side. We went on for another half hour or so, during which the distant thunder continued at intervals; and then, finding ourselves as deep in the forest as ever, I perceived that we must have strayed from our right path. I stopped and told the Countess.

"It must be so," she said.

"I noticed no cross-path when I rode into the forest this afternoon. Yet a path might join at such an angle that, looking straight ahead, I should not have seen it. Yes, that is undoubtedly the case, if we are in a path at all. Perhaps we are following the bed of a dried-up stream."

"Do you wish to turn back, then?"

"We might only lose ourselves. And yet that is what must happen if we go ahead. Let us wait for a flash of lightning."

One came presently, while my eyes were turned ready in what I thought the direction from which we had come. But there seemed to lie no opening at all in that direction. Then, in the blacker darkness that ensued, I remembered that I had turned my horse slightly while talking of the matter. I could not now tell exactly which direction we had come from. It occurred to me that perhaps for some time we had wandered about in no path at all, going where trees and underbrush left space clear enough to be mistaken.

I confessed that I knew not which way to go, even to find the original path.

"Is it best to ride on at random, in hope of coming upon something, or to stay where we are till daylight?" I asked.

The Countess had no will upon the matter. But the question was decided for me by a heavy downpour of rain, which came in a rush without warning. It was evident that the foliage over us was not thick. So I shouted to the Countess that we would go on till we found trees that gave more protection. I urged my horse to move, letting him choose his own course, and he obediently toiled forward, I exerting myself to keep the other horse close, and also feeling the way with my whip.

As swift as the oncoming of the rain, was the increase of the lightning, both in frequency and intensity. The fall of the rain seemed loud beyond measure, but it was drowned out of all hearing when the thunder rolled and reverberated across the sky. In the bright bursts of lightning, the trees, seen through falling rain, seemed like companions suffering with us the chastisement of the heavens; but in the darkness that intervened between the flashes, the forest and all the world seemed to have died out of existence, leaving nothing but the pelting waters and the din of the storm.

At last we came, not to a region where the boughs were less penetrable, but to an open space where the downpour had us entirely at its mercy. I thought at first we had got out of the forest, or into the glade we had left: but a brilliant flash showed us it was another small clearing, which rose slightly toward the thick woods on its further side. And the same lightning revealed, against the background of trees, a solitary tower, old and half-ruined, slender and of no great height. A doorway on a level with the ground stood half open.

"Did you see that?" I cried, when the lightning had passed. "There is shelter."

"It must be the tower of Morlon," said the Countess.

"And who lives there?"

"Nobody,—at least it was said to be empty when I used to hear of it. It is all that is left of a house that was destroyed in the civil wars. Hunting parties sometimes resort to it, and the peasants make use of it when passing this way.—Yes, we have come far out of our road, if that is really the tower of Morlon."

"Then it is every man's house. The door is open."

"It is an abandoned place, and people would take no care how they left the door."

"Let us go in, then. There can be nobody there, or the door would be closed against this storm."

I rode toward the spot where I supposed the tower was, and, rectifying my course by the next flash, I presently felt the stone wall with my whip. I dismounted, found the entrance, pushed the door wide, and saw by the lightning a low-ceiled interior, which was empty. I led the horses in, helped the Countess from the saddle, and removed her cloak, which, though itself drenched, had kept her clothes comparatively dry.

My first thought was of a place where the Countess might recline. But, as I found by groping about and by the frequent lightning, there was nothing except the floor, which, originally paved with stone, was now covered with dried mud from the boots of many who had resorted to the place before ourselves. There were no steps leading to the upper stories of the tower: the part we were in was, indeed, but a sort of basement. It occupied the full ground space of the tower, with the rough stone as its only shell, and had no window nor any discoverable opening place in the low ceiling.

Thinking there might be an external staircase to the story above us, I went out and felt my way around the tower, but found none. The entrance to the main or upper part of the tower from the buildings that once adjoined must have been to the story above, from a floor on the same level. I thought of seeking the opening and climbing in from the back of my horse, but I reflected that the upper stories also would doubtless be denuded, while they could offer no better shelter from the rain. So I was content with taking the saddles from the horses, and placing them together upside down in such a way that they constituted a dry reclining place for the Countess.

There was no dry wood to be had from the forest, and no fuel of any kind in our place of refuge; so I could not make a fire. While the Countess sat in silence, I paced the floor until I succumbed to fatigue. By that time, much of the water had dripped from my clothes, and I was able to sit on the carpet of earth with some comfort. I leaned my back against the wall, to wait till the storm and the night should pass.

The horses had lain down, and the Countess, as I perceived by her deep breathing and her not answering me, was asleep. The thunder and lightning were less near and less powerful, but the rain still fell, now decreasingly and now with suddenly regathered force. At last I too slept.

I awoke during the night, and changed from a sitting to a lying position. When I next opened my eyes, the light of dawn was streaming in at the door. The storm had ceased, birds were twittering outside. I was aching and hungry. The Countess's face, as she slept, betokened weakness and pain. I went and adjusted a saddle-flap that had got awry under her. As I did so, she awoke.

"I am so tired," she said in a slow, small voice, like that of a weary child.

"You are faint for want of food," said I. "You have eaten nothing since noon yesterday, and very little then."

Thinking I wished to hurry our departure in search of breakfast, she shook her head and murmured weakly:

"I am not able to go on just now. I assure you, I cannot even stand. All strength seems to have gone out of me." As if to illustrate, she raised her hand a few inches: it trembled a moment, then fell as if powerless.

It was plain that she was, whether from fatigue and privation alone, or from illness also, in a helpless state. It would be cruelty and folly to put her on horseback. And without at least the refreshment of food and wine, how was her condition to be improved so that she might leave this place?

After some thought and talk, I said:

"The only thing is for me to go and get you food and wine, while you stay here. But, alas, what danger you may be in while I am gone! If anybody should come here and find you!"

"Nobody may come. Surely there are many days when this place is left deserted."

"But if somebody should come?"

"All people are not cruel and wicked. It might be a person who is kind and good."

"But the robbers?"

"Why should they come? There is nothing for them here. If they came it would be by chance; against that, we can trust in God."

"Perhaps intruders can be bolted out," said I, going to examine the door. It was of thick oak, heavily studded with nails, and two of its three hinges still held firmly. But there was no bolt, nor any means of barring.

"Nothing but a lock," I said, "and no key for that." It only aggravated my feeling of mockery to discover that both parts of the lock were still strong. In my petulance I flung the door back against the wall.

As one sometimes gives the improbable a trial, from mere impulse of experiment, I took from my pocket the two keys I had brought from Lavardin. I tried first that of the room in which I had been imprisoned: it was too small, and of no avail. I then inserted the key of the postern. To my surprise, it fit. I turned it partly around; it met resistance: I used all my power of wrist; the lock, which had stuck because it was rusted and long unused, yielded to the strength I summoned.

"Thank God!" I cried. "It seems like the work of providence, that I kept the postern key."

I now reversed and withdrew the key, and applied it to the lock from the inside of the door, which I had meanwhile closed. But alas!—no force of mine could move the lock from that side, though I tried again and again.

I went outside and easily enough locked the door from there. I then renewed my endeavours from the inside, but with failure.

"Alas!" said I, turning to the Countess; "if I cannot lock the door from within, how much less will you be able to do so."

"But you can lock it from without," she answered, taking trouble to secure my peace of mind. "Why not lock me in? It will be the same thing. In either case I should not go out during your absence."

"That is true," I said. "I will make haste. If the door is locked against intruders, what matters it which of us has the key? I will guard it as my life,—nay, that too I will guard as never before, for yours will depend upon it."

I then questioned the Countess as to what part of the forest we were in, but her knowledge of the location of the tower, with regard to roads or paths, was vague.

I decided to take both horses with me, lest one, being heard or seen, in or about the tower, might excite the curiosity of some chance passer through the forest. But I left the saddles with the Countess. Anxious to lose no more time, I knelt and kissed her hand, receiving a faint smile in acknowledgment of my care; led out the horses, locked the door, pocketed the key, mounted, and was off. I went haunted by the sweet, sorrowful eyes of the Countess as they had followed me to the door.

With the sun to guide me, I rode Westward, for in that direction must be the highway we had left the day before. By keeping a straight course, and taking note of my place of emergence from the forest, I should be able to find my way back to the tower. The leaves overhead were nowhere so thick but that splashes of sunshine fell upon the earth and undergrowth, and, by keeping the shadow of my horse and myself ever straight in front, I maintained our direction. But besides this I frequently notched the bark of some tree, always on its South side, with my dagger. Having this to do, and the second horse to lead, and the underbrush being often difficult, my progress was slower than suited my impatience. But in about an hour and a half from starting, I came out of the forest upon the bank of the Loir, which is so insignificant a stream thereabouts that I may not have mentioned fording it upon entering the woods on the previous day. I let the horses drink, and then rode through, and across a meadow to the highway. I turned to the right, and arrived, sooner than I had expected, at the gate of a town, which proved to be Bonneval. I stopped at the inn across from the church, saw to the feeding of my horses, and then went into the kitchen. I ordered a supply of young fowl, bread, wine, milk in bottles, and other things; and bargained with the innkeeper for a pair of pliable baskets and a strap by which they might be slung across my horse like panniers. While I waited for the chickens to roast, I used the time in reviving my own energies with wine, eggs, and cold ham, which were to be had immediately.

Three or four people came or went while I was eating, and each time anybody crossed the threshold of the door, I glanced to see what sort of person it was. This watchfulness had become habitual to me of late. But as I was about finishing my meal, with my eyes upon my plate, I had an impression that somebody was standing near and gazing at me. As I had not observed any one to come so close, I looked up with a start. And there stood Monsieur de Pepicot, his nose as long as ever, his eyes as meek as when they had first regarded me at Lavardin.

"My faith!" I exclaimed. "You rise like a spirit. I neither saw nor heard you enter."

"I am a quiet man," he replied with a faint smile, sitting down opposite me.

"You are the very ghost of silence itself," said I. "What do you wear on the soles of your boots?"

Again he smiled faintly, but he left my question unanswered. "So you managed to keep out of trouble at that place where I last saw you?" said he.

"If I did not keep out of it, at least I got out of it."

"You are a clever young man,—or a lucky one. I was a little disturbed in mind at leaving you as I did. But—business called me. I knew that if you could manage to keep a whole body for ten days or so, even if that amiable Count did see fit to cage you up, you would be set free in the end."

"Set free? By the Count, do you mean?"

"Not at all. By those who would visit the Count; by those who have—But stay,—have you not just come from Lavardin?"

"No, indeed. I left that hospitable house more than a week ago. I set myself free."

"Oh, is that the case? I ask your pardon. When I saw you here, I naturally supposed your liberation was a result of what has just occurred. I haven't yet learned all particulars of the event."

"What event? I don't understand you."

"Then you don't know what has been going on at Lavardin recently?"

"Not I."

"Oh, indeed? Well, it will be known to all the world very soon. The Count, it seems, was suspected of some hand in the late intrigue with Spain—"

"Ah!"

"Why do you say 'Ah!'?"

"Nothing. I always thought there might be something wrong with the Count's politics."

"Well, so they thought in Paris. And having made sure—"

"How did they make sure?"

"Oh, by the discovery of certain documents, no doubt," said Monsieur de Pepicot, with a notable unconsciousness. "It is the usual way, is it not?"

"Aha! I begin to see now. You overdo the innocence, my friend. I begin to guess what you were doing at Lavardin—"

"Monsieur, I know not what you mean."

"I begin to guess why you wanted to get into the chateau,—what you were wandering about the house with a lantern for,—why you took your leave so unexpectedly,—and how you knew that in ten days I should be set free."

"Nay, Monsieur, I cannot follow you in your perceptions. I know only that on Monday evening a party of the King's guard appeared before the Chateau de Lavardin—"

"Having been sent from Paris soon after you had arrived there with the documents you found in the chateau."

"Please do not interrupt with your baseless conjectures, Monsieur. As I said, the guards arrived at Lavardin just as, by great good fortune, the Count himself was returning from some journey or excursion he had been on. Thus they met him outside his walls: had it been otherwise they would doubtless have had infinite trouble, for, as we know, the chateau has been for some time fully prepared for a siege, even to being garrisoned by the company of Captain Ferragant."

"What! then those fellows who thronged the court-yard—"

"Were a part of Captain Ferragant's famous company,—only a part, as I should have said at first, unless he has reduced its numbers. Well, instead of having the difficulty of besieging the chateau, the guards had the luck to meet the Count in the road, when he had only a few followers with him. And so they made short work."

"They succeeded in arresting him?"

"Not exactly that. He chose to resist, no doubt thinking he would soon be reinforced from the chateau by the Captain and garrison. And in the fight, the Count was killed,—stuck through the lungs by the sword of a guard who had to defend himself from the Count's own attack."

"My God! the Count killed!—dead!—out of the way!" For a moment I entirely yielded to the force of this news, which to my ears meant so much.

"Yes. You don't seem grieved.—Yes: he will never annoy people again. The Captain, though, seeing from the chateau how matters had gone, came out with his men on horseback,—not to avenge the Count, but to ride off as fast as possible in the other direction. So the King's guardsmen had no trouble in getting into the chateau. A party of them, I believe, set off in pursuit of the Captain, who has long been a thorn in the side of people who love order. If he is caught, it can be shown that he was involved in the treason; and there it is."

"So the Captain has not been caught?"

"He had not been when I heard the news."

"And how did you hear it?"

"From one of the guardsmen, who happens to be of my acquaintance. I saw them as they came through Chateaudun yesterday afternoon, on their return from this business. We had very little time for talking."

"Then you were not with them at Lavardin?"

"I with them? Certainly not, Monsieur. Why should I have been with them? No; I have been staying in this part of the country for my own pleasure the past few days: I think of buying some apple orchards near Chateaudun.—I fancied you would be interested in this news."

"I am, dear Monsieur de Pepicot,—infinitely. I am sorry I must leave you now, but I have business of some haste. I thank you heartily, and hope we may meet again. You know where La Tournoire is."

Five minutes later, with my baskets slung before me, and having left one horse at the inn, I was riding out of Bonneval to tell the Countess that she was free.