We rode slowly at first, lagging behind the Paris post, and still slowly when we turned south.

"Not too fast till the horses are warmed to their work," said Lesellè, and I, with a fevered, grudging impatience reined Mesrour back to a trot.

But once across the Cher the pace quickened, and on every flat and down every slope, we tore at a gallop. The road was good, smooth, broad and hard, Louis and corvée had seen to that. Pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop! A race for a man's life, said Monseigneur. Pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop! It was all that, and more than that for me—it was a race for a woman's soul. How could there be a God at all if this monstrous iniquity of Poictiers came to pass? Pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop! The intermingling beat of our horses' hoofs rang their rhythm in my head; a race—for the life—of a man; a race—for the life—of a man; a race—for a wom—an's soul; over and over again, till I almost screamed at the iteration.

A swerve down the hill to the valley of the Indre broke into the beat. With a splash we plunged into the river, and walked our panting beasts up the further slope.

"Do we keep our time, Monsieur Lesellè?"

"We more than keep it, Mademoiselle. Accidents apart, there is only one thing to fear."

"What is that?"

"Wolves."

"I am not afraid, Monsieur Lesellè."

"I know it, Mademoiselle, nor do I mean fear for ourselves," and with a thrust of the spur we rode on; by reaped cornfields, a race—for the life—of a man; through broad pastures, waste lands and commonage, pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop! a race—for a wom—an's soul; under leafy arches, where the trees, grappling, met overhead and rasped their boughs in a rising wind. What a race it was, and how the blood drummed in the ears, how the courage rose as the night-wind blew cool in the face! Pa-lop, pa-lop, pa——Crash! Bay Zadok was down, and Lesellè lay in the ditch groaning. But before I could jump from the saddle he was on his feet again, stooping over the horse. A minute or two he fumbled at it in the dark, muttering to himself.

"Hurt," he said curtly. "Mesrour must carry double to Sainte Maure. Mademoiselle, shift your foot from the stirrup an instant—yes, I have it now."

In the gloom, I felt rather than saw him grip at Mesrour's gear. With a swing he was up behind me on the croup, but as he steadied himself he moaned.

"Are you also hurt, Monsieur?"

"It is nothing," he answered, grasping my belt, "nothing at all; ride on."

God be thanked, it was not far, and at a trot we entered the straggle of dim grey huts that called itself Sainte Maure. Rounding a curve, a mellow glare flared from a doorstep.

"Monseigneur's posting-house," said Lesellè, and slipped to the ground. "Within there! Horses, horses! In the King's name!"

They were alert and waiting. A head, cowled like a priest's, peered round the jamb.

"Two minutes, Monsieur, two minutes; there is no more than to tighten the girths."

"Better dismount and stretch your legs, Mademoiselle," said Lesellè. "Two minutes means ten."

"Are we on time?"

"Better than that; one third the way, and the hour not much more than gone eleven."

"Bay Zadok?"

"Ah, Mademoiselle! if we could but have put him out of pain!"

"Poor beast! So bad as that? What of your own hurt? Ungrateful that I am, I had forgotten it."

"Nothing, Mademoiselle, nothing at all," and he turned into the shadow of the thatched house, crying out, "Quick with the horses! the King is in haste!"

The King is in haste! A true word. There were two Kings in haste, the King of Life and Love and the King of Sorrows. In my impatience I smote my palms together.

"Will they never bring the horses! Monsieur Lesellè! Monsieur Lesellè——"

"Here they come, Mademoiselle."

Down a lane between the huts, a lane smelling of unutterable vileness, came the night-capped figure, a bridle on either arm.

"Do you give Monsieur a hand; ride on, I'll follow," said Lesellè, and like a bolt I shot into the dark. This time I could brook no cautious warming into work.

Behind me Lesellè shouted for God's sake to wait; but I only cried back, Follow, follow, follow! and spurred on. It was three leagues before he caught me up, and then only because the Creuse at Port-de-piles stopped me. Six, eight, ten minutes I waited, chafing. But the river was brawling, and I dared not face the water alone. Lesellè's words were a warning. Only wolves or accident can stop us, and I feared the last more than the first.

When at length he came through the gloom he was swaying in his saddle.

"Now I know why you lagged behind!" I cried sharply. "Shame, boy, shame! Monsieur de Commines said I could trust you. Is this a time to drink yourself drunk?"

Steadying himself by an effort he turned to the left, making neither retort nor protest.

"The ford is upstream, Mademoiselle," was all he said.

That he took the rebuke so meekly turned the edge of my anger, righteous though it was, and I followed him without further comment. But as we crossed the stream, I riding on his left, midway my horse stumbled, and I cried out, for the waiting had broken down my self-control. Promptly he dropped the reins from his right hand, catching at my bridle. But reaching across his body he missed it, and I recovered of myself, shaken and out of temper.

"Try your nearer hand next time."

"Yes, Mademoiselle," he answered submissively, and splashing on through the shallow water of the ford led up the road.

But now galloping was no longer possible because of loose stones and greasy ruts. So sure as we pushed on beyond our cautious trot our beasts stumbled, nor did the track improve till we had passed Ingrande. Twice I broke out on Lesellè, once in tears and once lashing him with my tongue as if the fault was his. But he either kept silence and rode on doggedly, or answered, always submissively, that there was no better path, and that the going was faster beyond Chatellerault.

But in Chatellerault there was again a check.

The Corne d'Abondance was asleep from garret to cellar, and ten precious minutes were wasted before Lesellé, having beaten the door in vain, at last roused life by flinging a stone through an open window. Then a man leaned out, cursing. But Lesellè cursed him back in two languages, and cried out for the horses that were to be ready in the King's name. But there had either been a blunder or treachery: the horses were ordered for the night following, and again he cursed us for thieves.

"At your peril!" cried Lesellè. "If the King's business miscarries because of you, by God! you'll hang! You know the King's way."

"To-morrow night," answered the fellow, "that was the order, and it is the King's way to be obeyed to the letter."

In the end it was Lesellè's archer's dress that saved us, and thereafter there was no delay. But there had been a desperate waste of time, and as we galloped out of Chatellerault it seemed to me the east was grey.

The road was now a steady rise, with the Clain on our left glimmering in and out of the hosts of trunks that stretched from Mirebeaud to the ri............