We reined up on the edge of a shelving bank, and the Mable swirled before us. Beyond the alders on the opposite shore, but about a mile higher upstream, lay Richelieu. Late though it was there were many lights still burning, and now and then a fitful flare, that made the houses stand out redly for a moment, led me to think that the place was occupied by troops or marauders; and if so, the result would in either case be the same for the town, or for ourselves if we ventured thither. It must be remembered that the King's Writ was waste-paper here. All that was ill was loose in the land, and though Montpensier from the north and Montluc from the south struck with heavy hands, the Christaudins—or Huguenots, as they called them—held all the country from the chalks of ChÂtellerault to Saumur, and from Fontenaye to Thouars and La Mothe St. HÉraye.

Craning forward from the saddle I looked in the direction of the town, muttering to myself: "It may be out of the frying-pan into the fire." And as I did so mademoiselle exclaimed:

"Monsieur, why do we stay? That is Richelieu; and they follow us.
Cross, cross!"

I made no answer; but Pierrebon dismounted, and placed his ear to the ground.

"No one follows," he said after a little, rising to his feet; "they have had enough, these accursed bandits." And with this he mounted once more.

"But why stay? See! there is the house of the Bailiff of Muisson—that tall one where the lights are burning at the windows."

"The Bailiff keeps late hours, mademoiselle." And even as I spoke a bright flame suddenly flashed out, a ruddy light lit the walls, and the distant shouting of many voices came to our ears.

"See!" I went on, "they are cooking a late supper with the doors. They will make breakfast with the rafters."

"What is happening? Oh! what an awful night this is!"

"What is happening, mademoiselle, I cannot tell; but it seems we have only escaped a great danger to meet with another. Richelieu is full of armed men. Who they are we do not know. At any rate, for your sake if for nothing else, we will risk no more. We will cross, and make for Razines. There we will wait for daylight. Come!"

Leaning forward I took her horse by the bridle and we entered the stream.

"Courage!" said Pierrebon, who rode at her right; "courage, mademoiselle! It is not deep."

And she laughed, for she was not afraid, though the water bubbled and hissed around us, and once or twice the horses staggered and swayed, as though they would have fallen. Finally we made the passage, and reached the opposite shore. Once there I led them at a trot along the white, dusty track. We were in the angle formed by the Mable and the Veude, and here, where Poitou slopes towards the sea, the country still retains, with a roughness like unto that of Auvergne, all the freshness of La Marche. Far south was a dreary plain, but around us the land billowed into low hillocks, that stood over long stretches of stunted forest.

We rode in silence, except when now and again I spoke a word of warning in regard to the state of the road, or to regulate the pace. I began to wonder how long mademoiselle would hold out; and my doubts were soon set at rest. It was whilst crossing the almost dry bed of one of the small streams, spreading like veins over the country, that she suddenly reined up.

"I cannot go farther," she said faintly; and calling a halt I looked around me. A little distance from the track, which wound before us amongst the glistening stones, lay a dark grove of trees. I pointed at them.

"We will rest there, mademoiselle. 'Tis barely fifty paces; bear up till then!" And dismounting I walked by the side of her horse.

Short as the distance was I was in doubt if she would hold out, and as I glanced at her I saw even by the moonlight how white and drawn was her face, and then she began to sway in her seat. Calling to Pierrebon to take the reins of her horse I tried to hold her in the saddle, but, feeling her slipping, I put my unhurt arm around her and lifted her to the ground. For a little space she stood as one dazed, leaning against me with closed eyes, and then with an effort recovered herself and drew back.

"I am able to walk, monsieur—I—how far is it?"

"Only a step now." And, still supporting her, I led her onward until we reached the trees.

"We are here, mademoiselle." And taking her into the shade of a huge walnut-tree I flung my cloak on the grass, and made her sit thereon, whilst we hedged her around with saddlery. It was done as quickly as we could, and the tired girl leaned back against the saddles utterly wearied and exhausted. I stood watching her for a little, and then with a whispered word to Pierrebon about the horses stepped aside. I could do no more; but my heart was heavy within me, for I feared the result of exposure for her.

A few yards off a withered tree stood apart, an outcast from its fellows. The thought struck me as I went up to it, and tapped the decayed trunk with my fingers: "You and I, my friend—we have seen our past, and are out of the pale now." With this I sat down on one of the huge roots, that coiled like monstrous serpents at my feet, and leaning my head against the tree prepared to wait for the dawn.

My arm, where Simon's sword had touched me, now began to remind me that it needed attention. A low whistle brought Pierrebon to my side, and the injury was looked to by such light as the moon gave. Fortunately it was but a slight flesh wound, and an improvised bandage soon gave relief. So, resting it in a sling out of my scarf, I leaned back once more, and bade Pierrebon go and sleep.

For an hour or more I sat thus, watching and thinking. At last, rising slowly, I cautiously stepped up to mademoiselle and looked. She was asleep; but so still did she lie, so pale and white did she look, that I thought for a terrible moment that she was dead, and bent over her, placing my hand close to her lips to feel if she breathed. She moved uneasily as I did so, and I came back to my tree and to my thoughts. Finally, as the moon was sinking, I too slept, and as I slept I dreamed. I saw myself once more riding towards Orrain, and not alone, for mademoiselle was by my side. As we rode out of the pine-woods the Chateau stood before us. There was the square keep, with its pepper-box towers, and bartizans overhanging the moat. There were the grey ramparts tapestried in ivy, and the terraced gardens, where the peacocks sunned themselves. All around us were happy faces, and joyous voices welcoming us home—the home to which I had so long been dead; and it was mine now, and more besides—and then—I awoke with a start and looked around me. It was all so real.

"Tush!" I exclaimed, "have I slipped back into the days of enchantment and the fay Melusine?" And rising I saw it was touching dawn, for the east was red, and the morning star, Maguelonne—the shepherd's star, as we call it in our hills—was burning bright. Mademoiselle and Pierrebon were still asleep, and it was too early yet to awaken them. It would be time enough when the sun rose, and in the meanwhile I began to reflect upon the best means of bestowing mademoiselle in safety. Razines was so near to Richelieu that if the latter were occupied by marauders they would hardly have left the little hamlet alone, unless, indeed, they were Huguenots who were in Richelieu. In which event Razines, which was known to be touched with the new heresy, would probably be unharmed. This, however, did not make things any the better for us. I made up my mind that the best course would be to take mademoiselle on with me to Poitiers, and there hand her over to some responsible person until her friends could be told of her. The very thought of this, however, jarred on me somehow, and I caught myself building castles in Spain again. "Come," I said to myself, "at your age, mon ami, you should know better than to go off dreaming at the sight of a pretty face and the sound of a sweet voice." And then I laughed aloud at the thought that I knew but half her name—that at any rate would be remedied soon. So, rising, for it was time now, I softly awoke Pierrebon and mademoiselle, and in a short while we were once more on our way through the low hills that stretched through LencloÎtre.

It was necessary at all hazards that we should get some food, as well for the horses as ourselves, and when we had gone a little way we saw Razines lying to our left. Here I halted, and, moving my party into cover behind some trees, I explained the position, and begged mademoiselle to remain with Pierrebon, whilst I went forward to the village to see how matters stood, adding that, if I did not return within a short time, her best course would be to go on to Poitiers with Pierrebon, and place herself in a convent there until she could write to her friends.

"Monsieur," she answered, her colour rising, "you have risked enough for me already. I will not permit you to do this. If you go to Razines I go too."

I was delighted with her courage; but though I pressed her hard to do what I asked she was firm in her resolve. In this matter, however, I had no intention of yielding, and we might have been there half the day had we not seen coming up the road a couple of villagers with some cattle.

"We can at least inquire from them," I suggested, and she laughed.

"At the first sight of you, monsieur, they will be off. Let me go!" And suiting action to words she rode out towards the peasants. There was truth in her words, for as she rode out of the trees one of the yokels fled at once, but the other, seeing it was a woman, held his ground. A moment after they were in converse, and I saw a broad grin on the man's face. Then mademoiselle beckoned to us, and we came forth. On our appearance the peasant seemed inclined to follow his friend's example; but we somehow managed to reassure him, and gathered that, except for a small party of harmless travellers who were at the Green Man, Razines was empty.

"You are luckier than they are at Richelieu, my friend," I said.

"Then Richelieu is taken?"

"Apparently so."

"Hola! for Monsieur de Ganache!" And he flung his cap in the air. "Ha, monsieur, the Vicomte passed here but yesterday evening, with sixty lances at his back, to hang the Guidon. Has he done so?"

"I know not," I answered; and turning to mademoiselle, said: "We have had a lucky escape."

"Indeed! How, monsieur?"

"Because M. de Ganache is known to be one of the fiercest of the
Huguenot leaders, and spares nothing."

"We have to thank those who made him so, monsieur; and at any rate he has spared Razines."

I looked at her in surprise. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were hot, and I could scarce forbear a smile at the thought that it was a little rebel I had in my charge, and turning the talk, said:

"We may go on to the Green Man in safety, I think." And, bidding Pierrebon give the yokel a coin, we pressed forwards. It was not, however, without another careful scrutiny that I led the way into the village, where we were soon within the doors of the inn. It was a poor place, but host and hostess were kindly; and did the best they could. In the public room was the party of travellers whom the peasant had mentioned. They consisted of a gentleman and his wife, whose dress and air betokened them people of rank, whilst a little apart, at the lower end of the room, were one or two others—their servants. The glitter of a sapphire ring on the stranger's hand attracted my attention, and it was as if he noticed the casual glance I cast at it, for he turned his hand so as to hide the ring. This set me observing him more narrowly, and though it was years since I had seen him I was certain it was the Cardinal of ChÂtillon. It was Odet de Coligny himself, not a doubt of it, and the lady was the noble woman who had sacrificed so much for his sake. He had married her—prince of the Church though he was—and had openly thrown in his lot with those of the New Faith.

They in their turn looked at us with interest as we entered, and on seeing mademoiselle the lady looked as if she knew her, and seemed as if she were about to speak, but ChÂtillon said something in a low voice which restrained her. On the other hand, mademoiselle seemed flurried, and kept her face averted. I could not but think they knew each other; but it was no time to ask questions, so I said nothing, but quietly set about arranging for our comforts. Mademoiselle retired to her room at once, the landlady fussing after her, and after having assisted Pierrebon to see to the horses I myself went to rest. I must have slept for a good four hours, and on awakening found it was high noon. Down I came, and entering the public room of the inn found it empty. I went on towards the stables, where Pierrebon was still asleep near the horses. There was no sign of mademoiselle, and thinking she was still resting I let Pierrebon alone, and returning into the inn sat near a window, awaiting my charge's appearance. Had I been alone I would have pressed on to Poitiers, and reached it by nightfall; but as it was it would be better to wait till well on in the afternoon, when mademoiselle, being refreshed, would no doubt be able to travel. We should halt at Miribeau for the night, and make Poitiers the next day. So I let some time go past, and then, feeling dull, called to the host, and invited him to share a bottle of wine with me. He came, as it seemed, somewhat unwillingly; but soon we were in talk, and, for something to say, I inquired about the other travellers. Here his embarrassment increased, and he stammered out that they had gone on to Richelieu about two hours ago; and then, as if taking a sudden resolution, fumbled in his pocket, and drew forth a letter, which he handed to me, saying: "For you, monsieur."

I tore open the cover, and read:

"MONSIEUR,—I owe you so much that I know not how to thank you or how to explain my leaving you as I do now. I feel sure you would like to know that I am going of my own free will, and with friends. Monsieur, we will meet again I know, and then, perhaps, I shall be in a position to show you that I can be grateful. DIANE."

I read to the end without a word, and glanced at my host. He saw and understood the question in my eyes.

"Mademoiselle gave it to me with her own hands. I—I could not prevent her leaving," he added, with fear in his voice. The poor wretch was almost overcome with terror at the thought that I might turn against him in my wrath.

"Thank you; that is enough." And crushing the letter in my hand I rose and walked out. I was hurt and indignant, but after a little I cooled down. After all, her proper place was with her friends. I had but helped her on her way, and there was an end of it. So I swallowed my ill-humour as best I could, and, to his astonishment, making the landlord of the inn a present of the horse we had taken at Le Jaquemart, Pierrebon and I went on our way.