Renaud divined Rampal’s plan.
“He will keep to the road,” he suddenly thought, and feeling certain that he was right, he turned to the left and rode due west. Rampal, having the start of him by a full league, drew rein in the vicinity of Grandes-Cabanes, and having planted his spear-head in the ground, rested both hands upon it, then placed his feet, one after the other, on the hind-quarters of his horse, and stood there for some moments, scanning the plain behind him. Between two clumps of tamarisks he caught a glimpse of a horseman, like a flash of light, or like a rabbit scuttling between two wild thyme bushes—Renaud, beyond question! Rampal saw that Renaud, if it were he, was about to take to the road, and he himself thereupon left it and rode in the opposite direction on a line parallel to that his enemy was following in the distance. When Renaud reached the road and turned into it, Rampal had the Vaccarès in front of him, and there he turned to the left and followed the shore. His plan was to cross the main stream of the Rhône, and reach the Conscript’s Hut, in the middle of the gargate, the spot where he was confident of finding safe shelter in times of serious danger. Unluckily for him, he had been seen—when he was standing on his horse watching his man—by a fisherman who was crouching on the edge of the canal, fishing for eels with a reed and a short line, at the end of which was a bunch of worms, strung and twisted together.
“Have you seen Rampal, friend?” said Renaud, stopping his horse short as soon as he saw the fisherman, who was just about changing his place.
“Ah! King, are you the man who is looking for him?” said the fisherman, an old man. “If he has kept to the road he took to get away from you,—for I saw he was watching some one behind him,—he ought to be on the shore of the Vaccarès by this time, and from there, if he doesn’t go back to Saintes-Maries, he will surely go up toward Notre-Dame-d’Amour. You have a good horse, and you can catch him between the Vaccarès and the Grand’ Mar.”
Renaud darted away as if he had wings.
After an hour and a half of furious riding,—he was wise enough, however, to change his gait several times,-he drew rein, a little discouraged; then, after a brief halt and a draught of brandy from the flask that never left his holsters, he resumed his headlong race—but not until he had thoughtfully allowed his horse to drink a swallow of water from the canal.
When he was between the Grand’ Mar swamp and the Vaccarès, he found his own drove taking their midday rest there, under the guidance of Bernard, his young assistant.
Horses and bulls were lying motionless on the shore of the Vaccarès, in the twofold glare from sky and water, for it was well-nigh noon, and the light was dazzling.
Bernard was resting likewise, lying on his back with his head on the saddle, not far from his horse, which was fettered near by, learning to amble.
In front of Renaud lay the pearl-gray Vaccarès, gleaming like a huge table of polished steel, in the centre of which a veritable white islet of sea-mews were sleeping, motionless as statues.