It was gone into the darkness in another second; but a violent start on her part had given a note of alarm, and brought back the Count, whose walk had been in the opposite direction.
“What was it? Any spy?”
“Oh no—no—nothing! It was the face of one who is dead,” gasped Anne.
“The poor child’s nerve is failing her,” said the Queen gently, as Lauzun drawing his sword burst out—
“If it be a spy it shall be the face of one who is dead;” and he darted into the road, but returned in a few moments, saying no one had passed except one of the rowers returning after running up to the inn to hasten the coach; how could he have been seen from the church wall? The wheels were heard drawing up at that moment, so that the only thought was to enter it as quickly as might be in the same order as before, after which the start was made, along the road that led through the marshes of Lambeth; and then came the inquiry—an anxious one—whom or what mademoiselle, as Lauzun called her, had seen.
“O monsieur!” exclaimed the poor girl in her confusion, her best French failing, “it was nothing—no living man.”
“Can mademoiselle assure me of that? The dead I fear not, the living I would defy.”
“He lives not,” said she in an undertone, with a shudder.
“But who is he that mademoiselle can be so certain?” asked the Frenchman.
“Oh! I know him well enough,” said Anne, unable to control her voice.