They were shown upstairs into a comfortable room with two beds. As they shut and locked the door, they looked earnestly at each other. St. Arnaud, without a word, tumbled into one of the beds, saying: “We may never come out of this room alive; but let us take our rest calmly. We are in the hands of fate.”
“In the hands of God, you mean—so my mother taught me,” answered Gavin; and straightway he plumped down on his knees at the side of the bed, and said a prayer out aloud for their success in escaping; and then, throwing himself on the bed, was asleep in two minutes.
St. Arnaud waked first. There was a clock in the room, and he saw that it was five o’clock, and the short winter twilight was coming on. He shook Gavin, and in a few moments they went downstairs. Miss Hein, in her riding-dress, was walking up and down the hall impatiently. “I am afraid,” she said, “it is too late to make our start.”
“That is unfortunate,” responded St. Arnaud. “Would you, however, permit us to use your chaise to the next posting-house, which cannot be more than two miles away?”
Miss Hein cogitated for a moment. But there was a sweet persuasiveness in St. Arnaud’s tone that she had not been able to resist since the first hour she met him, and she answered pleasantly:
“Yes. You have been so polite—”
“Oh, madam, it is you—it is your kindness—and trust me, it will never be forgotten.”
The chaise was before the door, and Gavin and St. Arnaud, bidding an adieu so warm that it brought the blood to Miss Hein’s faded cheek, went out and entered the carriage. The coachman, a country lout, drove off in the direction of Glatz. As soon as they were out of sight of the house, St Arnaud put his head out of the window and said:
“You are going in the wrong direction. It is the next posting-house toward the mountains that we wish to reach.” The rustic turned his horses about, and they travelled toward the mountains for four miles. They were too intent upon listening for pursuit and surprise to speak much, but Gavin said: “It is not often that escaped prisoners ride in coaches and chaises, as we have done.”
“Good Miss Hein!” cried St. Arnaud. “I had half a mind to throw ourselves on her mercy. I believe there is scarcely a woman who lives who will not be kind to an unfortunate.”