He stood yet a moment looking at me, then turned away, and I heard a murmur from the crowd at the door.
“To horse!” he cried. “Bind these two rogues to the saddle! Bring forth the women!”
In an instant all was confusion. Drouet and another led me away, out into the black court, through a crowd of sweating horses and cursing men-at-arms, to the place where our mounts were stabled. Again I was seated in the saddle, and a rope passed from ankle to ankle beneath the horse’s belly. Drouet laughed savagely as he tied the last knot.
“There, my brave,” he said, “I’ll warrant you’ll stay with us yet a little longer.”
I had not the heart to retort, but sat silent while the troop fell into line again. I strained my eyes through the darkness for a glimpse of Fronsac or the women, but saw no sign of either. At last came the word to march, and we set off slowly through the night. No road, this time, but what seemed rough hill-land, so slowly did we pick our way. Drouet was in a savage mood, reflecting, doubtless, that had I escaped he must have suffered for it, and did what he could to make my position irksome by leading my mount over the roughest places and pricking him suddenly from time to time.
Dawn found us in a narrow valley with a little brook singing through. Far ahead I could see the peaks of the Pyrenees, nearer than the day before, but still leagues away. In the midst of a little grove of trees the word came to dismount, and the men swung themselves wearily from the saddle. It was easy to see that they had been hard pressed. Their horses were almost done; yes, and the stains upon their clothing were not wholly those of the road, for some carried their arms in slings, some had their heads bandaged, some clung to the saddle with convulsive fingers, their lips purple, their eyes set with suffering. So there had been a battle, and M. le Comte had won! I remembered his concern to keep his horses fresh and looked back over the way we had come in the wild hope that I might see him in pursuit, but I saw only the bleak hillside, the barren rocks, the strip of woodland.
Yet Roquefort shared the same concern, for he stationed sentries on the neighboring hilltops and gave his men but a brief half-hour to prepare their meal and wind their horses. And here I caught a glimpse of the agony of a soldier’s life—the wounded men groaning and cursing, the white fear of death upon them, their lips trembling in self-pity, receiving but scant attention, for the others were dead-weary from their long ride. One poor fellow came suddenly to the end, and was carried aside with little ceremony and a few rocks piled upon him. These scoundrels looked too often in the face of death to fear it until it came home to each one separately.
The half-hour passed and we set forward again, only this time, in the light, I saw that Roquefort rode at the column’s head with another man at his side. My eyes dwelt upon him idly and I wondered who this newcomer could be. He sat his horse well and was richly dressed—so richly that he seemed out of place in this bedraggled, road-stained mob. They were deep in talk, and at one moment Roquefort pointed away to the west. His companion turned his head to follow the gesture, and I caught his profile—there was no mistaking that arched nose, that low forehead, that cruel mouth—it was d’Aurilly!
I clutched my saddle to hold my seat, my emotion shook me so. Then he was the traitor, after all! And the plot, of which I had caught but a glimpse, lay before me like an open book. D’Aurilly was to have Mademoiselle; Fronsac could eat his heart out if he chose, or swallow his chagrin, if his gullet were big enough; with Mademoiselle for hostage, M. le Comte could be brought to terms; and as for me——
I would not think of it! Here was I still alive and with my wits to help me. Even at the worst there should be no tearing to pieces, no death by inches. I would find an easier way than that. Yet I do not deny that for an instant I found it in my heart to regret the green fields of Marsan, to regret that I had not been content to remain there quietly and leave these great men to find other pawns to sacrifice. Yet, after all, this was life, this was living, and only the night before I had looked into a pair of eyes and fancied I saw love there. Was not that worth something?