"How far to Poictiers?"
"Five leagues, Mademoiselle."
"And the hour?"
All Lesellè's boyish ardour was gone. He rode like an old man, slouching in the saddle, his chin sunk on his breast. At my question I saw him raise his head and look at me, his face white against the overhung blackness of the night.
"Mademoiselle, I have done my best."
"The hour, Monsieur, if you please?"
"Gone four, I think."
"Oh!" and with a savage lash I brought down the whip on my beast's sweating flank. "Dawn in an hour! Lesellè, Lesellè, is there nothing will drive them on?"
"They are only blown, Mademoiselle; give them time."
"Time? Who will give Gaspard de Helville time? God of Love! Is there nothing—nothing to drive them on?"