'I forgot; it is the first day for hunting,' said Rosselin, listening. 'It is the ouverture de la chasse.'
As he spoke some equestrians rode out from a thicket across the field in which they were. They were members of the hunt of Dampierre, clad in a picturesque costume and looking like a picture of the time of Louis Quinze as the warm sunset light fell across them. They rode on quickly towards the west whence came the notes of the hunting fanfare.
They did not look towards herself or Rosselin; but a few seconds later another huntsman, whose hunter was lame, came by in their wake more slowly, leading his horse. He turned his head, paused a moment or two, then rode straight towards them.
It was the Duc de Béthune. He doffed his tricornered gold-laced hat and bade Rosselin, whom he knew well, good-evening; then glanced at Damaris.
'Mademoiselle Bérarde!' he said, hesitatingly. 'Surely I do not mistake?'
She looked at him with recognition.
'You came to the island with her,' she said, rather to herself than to him. The colour grew hot in her face; all the unforgettable shame of that day was with her in bitter recollection.
'I am honoured by so much remembrance, and grateful to the hole in the turf which lamed my horse.'
'That is language for the château of Dampierre,' said Rosselin. 'M. le Duc has lost his way, I think?'