“If they’d stopped us my life wouldn’t have been worth the asking,” he muttered hoarsely. “But I did it!” Triumphantly gazing at the young girl who, trembling with excitement, leaned against the side of the coach. “I see you managed to get down the shutter. I hope you heard your own voice. I didn’t; and, what’s more, I’m sure they didn’t!”
With fingers he could hardly control he opened a second bottle, dispensed with the formality of a glass, and set the neck to his lips, repeating the operation until it was empty, when he tossed it out of the window to be shattered against a rock, after which he sank again into a semblance of meditation.
Disappointed over her ineffectual efforts, overcome by the strain, the young girl for the time relaxed all further attempt. Unseen, unheard, she had stood at her window! She had tried to open the door, but it resisted her frantic efforts, and then the din had died away and left her weak, powerless, hardly conscious of the hateful voice of her companion from time to time addressing her.
But fortunately he preferred the gross practice of draining the cup to the fine art of conversation. Left to the poor company of her thoughts, she dwelt upon the miscarriage of her design, and the slender chance of assistance. They would probably pass through no 152 more villages and if they did, he would undoubtedly find means to prevent her making herself known. Unless––and a glimmer of hope flickered through her thoughts!––her warder carried his potations to a point where vigilance ceased to be a virtue. Inconsiderately he stopped at the crucial juncture, with all the signs of contentment and none of drowsiness.
So minutes resolved themselves into hours and the day wore on. Watching the sun-rays bathe the top of the forest below them, she noted how fast the silver disk was descending. The day which had seemed interminable now appeared but too short, and she would gladly have recalled those fleeting hours. Ignorant of the direction in which they had been traveling, she realized that the driver had been unsparing and the distance covered not inconsiderable. The mystery of the assault, the obscurity of the purpose and the vagueness of their destination were unknown quantities which, added to the declining of the day and the brewing terrors of the night, were well calculated to terrify and crush her.
Despairingly, she observed how the sun dipped, and ever dipped toward the west, when suddenly a sound afar rekindled her fainting spirits. Listening more attentively, she was assured imagination had not deceived her; it was the faint patter of a horse’s hoofs. Nearer it drew; quicker beat her pulses. Moreover, it was the rat-a-tat of galloping. Some one was pursuing the coach on horseback. Impatient to glance behind, she only refrained for prudential reasons.
Immersed in his own grape-vine castle her jailer was unmindful of the approaching rider, and she turned her face from him that he might not read her exultation. Closer resounded the beating hoofs, but her impatience outstripped the pursuer, and she was almost impelled to rush to the window.
Who was the horseman? Was it Barnes? Saint-Prosper? The latter’s name had quickly suggested itself to her.
Although the rider, whoever he might be, continued to gain ground, to her companion, the approaching clatter was inseparable from the noise of the vehicle, and it was not until the horseman was nearly abreast, and the cadence of the galloping resolved itself into clangor, that the dreamer awoke with an imprecation. As he sprang to his feet, thus rudely disturbed, a figure on horseback dashed by and a stern voice called to the driver: