“Good-night, gentlemen,” he shouted in victorious bravado, “we shall meet to-morrow. Mes saluts et au revoir!”
In went the spurs and his maddened horse was bursting through the wood. Another pistol-shot and they were after him, but he had a good start and he knew that no beast alive could overhaul the beautiful blood mare he had bought in England. A roar of flame behind him—the crack of the wood—two pistol bullets singing through the swirling raw air—a ghastly vision of that half-naked man and woman in the horror of the clotted grass, his horse’s hoofs stamping out the dead woman’s face as she lay where he had left her—a ride as of devil-tormented goblins through the pains of hell—that was André’s recollection of his return until he dropped fainting within his own lines.
Two flickering candles danced in his eyes as he opened them.
“Bravo!” whispered a caressing voice. “Bravo!”
He was lying in a long chair and the little vivandière was kneeling beside him.
“Bravo!” she repeated, “and now drink—drink!” She forced brandy, glorious and hot, down his throat.
“Ah!” He sat up. The horror was slowly fading away, though he could still see floating between her face and his that black cabin roaring red, and that outcast woman’s face crushed into pulp beneath the iron of his horse’s shoe. “The papers—the plans,” he muttered.
“They are here,” she waved them softly, they were stained with blood. “Yes, we are saved—France and the army and the King are saved and you—you have saved us.”
André smiled, letting his head drop. He was supremely happy. Denise would hear of this—Denise—ah!