"You regret not returning with him, perhaps?" she observed quickly. "Honors and offices of preferment are not plentiful."
"I want none of them from Francis," he returned, as they started slowly on their way.
The road before them descending gradually, passed through a gulch, where the darkness was greater, and such light as sifted through the larch and poplar trees rested in variable spots on the earth. Overhead the somber obscurity appeared touched with a veil of shimmer or sheen like diamond dust floating through the mask of night. Their horses but crept along; the girl bent forward wearily; heretofore the excitement and danger had sustained her, but now the reaction from all she had endured bore down upon her. She thought of calling to the fool; of craving the rest she so needed; but a feeling of pride, or constraint, held her silent. Before her the shadows danced illusively; the film of brightness changed and shifted; then all glimmering and partial shade were swallowed up in a black chasm.
Riding near, the jester observed her form sway from side to side, and spurred forward. In a moment he had clasped her waist, then lifted her from the saddle and held her before him.
"Jacqueline!" he cried.
She offered no resistance; her head remained motionless on his breast. Sedulously he bent over her; the warm breath reassured him; tired nature had simply succumbed. Irresolute he paused, little liking the sequestered gulch for a resting-place; divining the prickly thicket and almost impenetrable brushwood that lined the road. An unhealthy miasma seemed to ascend from below and clog the air; through the tangle of forest, phosphorus gleamed and glowworms flitted here and there.
Gathering the young form gently to him, the jester rode slowly on, and the horse of his companion followed. So he went, he knew not how long; listening to her breathing that came, full and deep; half-fearing, half-wondering at that relaxation. For the first time he forgot about the emperor and his purpose; the free baron and the desires of sweet avengement. He thought only of her he held; how courageous yet alone she was in the world; how she had planned the service which won her the right to his protection; her flight from Francis—but where? To whom could she go? To whom could she turn? Unconscious she lay in his arms in that deep sleep, or heavy inertia following exhaustion, her pale face against his shoulder; and as the young plaisant bent over her his heart thrilled with protecting tenderness.
"Why, what other maid," he thought, "would ride on until she dropped? Would meet discomfort at every turn with a jest or a merry stave?"
And, but for him, whom else had she? This young girl, had she not become his burden of responsibility; his moral obligation? For the first time he seemed to realize how the fine tendrils of her nature had touched his; touched and clung, ever so gently but fast. Her fine scorn for dissimulation; her answering integrity; the true adjustment of her instinct—all had been revealed to him under the test of untoward circumstances.
He saw her, too, secretly and silently cherishing a new faith in her bosom, amid a throng, lax and infirm of purpose, and wonderment gave way to another emotion, as his mind leaped from that past, with its covert, inner life, to the untrammeled moment when she had thrown off the mask in the solitude of the forest. Had some deeper chord of his nature been struck then? Their aspirations of a kindred hope had mingled in the majestic psalm; a larger harmony, remote from roundelay, or sparkling cadenza, that drew him to this Calvin maid. A solemn earnestness fell upon his spirits; the starlight bathed his brow, and he found the mystery of the night and nature inexplicably beautiful.