In the afternoon, I stopped for another look backward. There was not a soul to be seen on the road.
"Adieu, M. Barbemouche!" I said. "I believe you have grown tired of me at last."
At that instant a group appeared at the distant turn of the road. I counted them. Seven! And they were coming on at the speed of the wind.
I patted my horse on his quivering neck. "Come, old comrade," I said.
"Now for one last, long race. In your legs lies my future."
He obeyed the spur, and his increased pace revealed a slight lameness, which had not before been perceptible.
"We have only to reach some Gascon town," I said to him. "The soldiers of the King of Navarre will protect the bearer of a letter to him from their Queen."
I turned in my saddle, and looked back. They were gaining ground.
"They know that this is their last chance," I said. "We are near the country held by the King of Navarre, and so they make a last effort before giving up the chase. On, my staunch fellow! You shall have fine trappings, and shall fare as well as your master, for this!"
The animal maintained its pace as if it understood; but it panted heavily and foamed, its eyes took on a wild look, and its lameness increased.
"They are coming nearer, there is no doubt of it!" I told myself. "Have I escaped from the Louvre and from Paris, led my enemies a chase through five provinces, to be taken when refuge is at last in sight? Shall Marguerite's letter to Henri of Navarre fall into the hands of those who wish him no good?"