The Countess still lay on the grassy couch beneath the oak. She seemed to have lost all will as to her course of action.
"I think best not to go with those guards," I explained after a moment. "For why should we travel their way without any destination? There is nothing for us now in that direction. After what you have told me, I dare not let you go to the convent."
"There is no place for me," she said listlessly. "Death has disappointed me, and left me in the lurch. I think this place is as good as another."
She closed her eyes for some moments, as if she would lie there till death came, after all.
"No," said I; "you must not stay here. Night is coming on: the chill and the dews will be harmful to you. Besides, there are clouds already blotting out some of the stars, and the wind is rising and may bring more. If there is rain, it may be heavy, after so many days of fine weather. It will soon be too dark to follow the path. We must be getting on."
"I am weak from this blow," she said,—rather as if for a pretext against moving, I thought. "I am not sure I could keep my saddle."
"I can carry you as I ride, if need be, and let your horse follow. Come, Madame, let us see if you can rise. If not, I will take you in my arms to the glade, where it will be easier to mount."
I stooped to support her, but she did not stir.
"But where am I to go?" she said. "Of what use to travel aimlessly from place to place? As you say, why should we ride on toward the convent without a destination? But where else have I a destination?"
"Listen, Madame. Is it not probable that after some weeks, or months, the Count, still disappointed of your taking refuge at the convent, will give up hope or expectation of finding you there? Will he not then withdraw his attention from the convent?"