“And Brand?” the King asked.
Her cheeks burned with a sudden rush of colour.
“You may tell him,” she said, “after to-morrow.”
CHAPTER L
Into the black night across the level plain which stretched between Theos and the pass of Althea a woman rode as one rides a race with death. Her servants had been left far away behind—her horse’s sides were streaked with foam, once or twice he had swerved and almost unseated her. She plied him with whip and spur, and passionate words. It was for the honour of a great race, for her own salvation that she rode. All was well as yet. The lights of the camp were twinkling like a band of ribbon across the hillside, and there was silence as deep as death everywhere, except when the wind came booming down the valley in fitful gusts, and bowed the tops of the lonely and stunted trees. Upwards she mounted, and the road grew rougher. Her horse’s eyes were streaked with blood, his nostrils quivered. Still she urged him on. A little further now, and her goal was reached. So she rode on, white to the lips with fear—lest even now she should be too late.
At the outposts they stopped her, and the great bay horse, after staggering for a moment like a drunken man, fell over dead. She scarcely glanced at him. The officer, who knew her, rapidly transferred her saddle to his own pony.
“It is a message from the King to Nicholas,” she said. “Tell me, how long will it take me?”
“The Duke is himself guarding the Beacon,” the soldier answered. “Madame the Countess will reach him in ten minutes.”