“Adieu, Madame!” Maurice cried, airily. He was free.
“To our next meeting, duchess!” The prince, too, was free, but he thirsted for a full revenge.
They had been on the way but a short time when Maurice lifted his arm.
“Look!”
The prince raised his head. It was dawn, yellow and cold and pure.
They fell into silence; sometimes Maurice caught himself counting the beat of the hoofs and the variation of sounds, as when they struck sand or slate, or crossed small wooden bridges. Here and there he saw peasants going into the fields to begin the long, long day of toil. The saddle on which he sat had been the property of a short man, for the stirrups were too high, and the prince's were too low. But neither desired to waste time to adjust them. And so they rode with dangling legs and bodies sunken in the saddles; mute, as if by agreement.
They had gone perhaps ten miles when they perceived a horse flying toward them, half a mile away. The rider was not yet visible. They felt no alarm, but instinctively they drew together. Nearer and nearer came the lonely horseman, and as the distance lessened into some hundred yards they discerned the flutter of a gown.
“A woman!” exclaimed Maurice. “And alone this time of morning!”
“Eh?” cried the prince; “and heading for the duchy? Let us wait.”
They drew up to the side of the highway. The woman came fearlessly on, her animal's head down and his tail flaring out behind. On, on; abreast of them; as she flew past there was a vision of a pale, determined face, a blond head bared to the chill wind. She heeded not their challenge; it was a question whether or not she heard it. They stood watching her until she and her horse dwindled into a mere moving speck, finally to become lost altogether in a crook of the road.