CHAPTER XXXIV
A RACE FOR A LIFE
We rode slowly at first, lagging behind the Paris post, and still slowly when we turned south.
"Not too fast till the horses are warmed to their work," said Lesellè, and I, with a fevered, grudging impatience reined Mesrour back to a trot.
But once across the Cher the pace quickened, and on every flat and down every slope, we tore at a gallop. The road was good, smooth, broad and hard, Louis and corvée had seen to that. Pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop! A race for a man's life, said Monseigneur. Pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop! It was all that, and more than that for me—it was a race for a woman's soul. How could there be a God at all if this monstrous iniquity of Poictiers came to pass? Pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop! The intermingling beat of our horses' hoofs rang their rhythm in my head; a race—for the life—of a man; a race—for the life—of a man; a race—for a wom—an's soul; over and over again, till I almost screamed at the iteration.
A swerve down the hill to the valley of the Indre broke into the beat. With a splash we plunged into the river, and walked our panting beasts up the further slope.
"Do we keep our time, Monsieur Lesellè?"
"We more than keep it, Mademoiselle. Accidents apart, there is only one thing to fear."
"What is that?"
"Wolves."
"I am not afraid, Monsieur Lesellè."