"I know it, Mademoiselle, nor do I mean fear for ourselves," and with a thrust of the spur we rode on; by reaped cornfields, a race—for the life—of a man; through broad pastures, waste lands and commonage, pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop! a race—for a wom—an's soul; under leafy arches, where the trees, grappling, met overhead and rasped their boughs in a rising wind. What a race it was, and how the blood drummed in the ears, how the courage rose as the night-wind blew cool in the face! Pa-lop, pa-lop, pa——Crash! Bay Zadok was down, and Lesellè lay in the ditch groaning. But before I could jump from the saddle he was on his feet again, stooping over the horse. A minute or two he fumbled at it in the dark, muttering to himself.
"Hurt," he said curtly. "Mesrour must carry double to Sainte Maure. Mademoiselle, shift your foot from the stirrup an instant—yes, I have it now."
In the gloom, I felt rather than saw him grip at Mesrour's gear. With a swing he was up behind me on the croup, but as he steadied himself he moaned.
"Are you also hurt, Monsieur?"
"It is nothing," he answered, grasping my belt, "nothing at all; ride on."
God be thanked, it was not far, and at a trot we entered the straggle of dim grey huts that called itself Sainte Maure. Rounding a curve, a mellow glare flared from a doorstep.
"Monseigneur's posting-house," said Lesellè, and slipped to the ground. "Within there! Horses, horses! In the King's name!"
They were alert and waiting. A head, cowled like a priest's, peered round the jamb.
"Two minutes, Monsieur, two minutes; there is no more than to tighten the girths."
"Better dismount and stretch your legs, Mademoiselle," said Lesellè. "Two minutes means ten."