He had been standing with his head bent and his hands behind him, a melancholy shadow in the long, moon-streaked gallery. Nance came out from her room, believing what she desired to believe, and that De Rothan had been driven to surrender. But before she could throw her hands up, a blanket was tossed over her head, and she felt herself smothered in it and wrapped round by De Rothan's arms. He carried her along the gallery and down the stairs, holding her so tightly that she felt like a child crushed in a crowd.
Confused movements were going on in the darkness about her. She heard harness jingling, and smelt the smell of horses.
"Quick, François! The scarf—tie it so."
Something soft was passed about her body and knotted so that she could not move her arms. She felt herself lifted on to the back of a horse and held there by two strong hands. Someone mounted behind her, and she guessed that it was De Rothan.
"Bide quiet, ma chère, and no harm will come. Gaston, are you there?"
A man came running down the stairs.
"It is done, monsieur, it is done."
Nance heard the words, and their vague, suggestive horror numbed her heart. She was like a cataleptic, unable to move or to cry out. Strange, wild things were happening, and she could not help herself. She was aware of a dull red wound in the midst of her consciousness, the thought that Jasper had been given his death.
"Open the door, man. Softly—ready? Follow me and keep close."
De Rothan's arm tightened about her. He spoke sharply as the horse moved.