"Oh, no, no, no! I mustn't listen!" Her bosom filled. Her eyes closed. She crumpled suddenly in his arms.
The next morning, mounted upon a fine-bred chestnut mare, a zealous Zouave at the bridle, she waited in the great courtyard behind the château. She had offered her knowledge of the locality to the colonel and gladly he had accepted it. He came towards her now on his noble black horse, bending down in grave talk with the chef de bataillon walking by his stirrup. She acknowledged his salutation, and a moment later they were riding out of the great gate together.
The ravine of Lysboisée lifted its towering further wall of dark undergrowth immediately behind the château. A narrow path, frequently stepped, zigzagging through the hanger in steep gradients, made the ascent of the sheer acclivity possible. Side by side they walked their horses up, bending often in the saddle to escape the low overhanging branches. They rode in silence, each in their own thoughts. She glanced sideways at her companion. It was the face of a soldier, not of a lover. Obviously he pondered some problem. She sighed. This undisturbed solitude, the screen of thick woodland arching over them, on the two pacing animals that nosed each other amicably, awoke primitive instincts in her. But she kept silence, made no movement.
At last, as though summoned by her thought, he turned his head towards her.
"You have received bad news, mon ami?" she asked.
"Orders that throw a heavy responsibility upon me," he answered.
Again they relapsed into silence. The ascent continued. Only a few yards short of the summit did the undergrowth cease.
For a dozen paces the path ran over bare close-cropped grass, then, sunk in a rough cutting, surmounted the crest.
A little beyond, on the open down, the grand'garde—a weak company of Zouaves—was digging energetically at shelter-trenches. The colonel spoke with the officer, rode on.