noise, emerging
on a night now glittering with stars, and clamant with the roar of
tumbling waters.

A simple explanation!--he had come out beside the river. The passage
came to its conclusion under the dumb arch of a bridge whose concaves
echoed back in infinite exaggeration every sound of the river as it
gulped in rocky pools below.

The landscape round about him in the starshine had a most bewitching
influence. Steep banks rose from the riverside and lost themselves in
a haze of frost, through which, more eminent, stood the boles and giant
members of vast gaunt trees, their upper branches fretting the starry
sky. No snow was on the spot where he emerged, for the wind, blowing
huge wreaths against the buttresses of the bridge a little higher on
the bank, had left some vacant spaces, but the rest of the world was
blanched well-nigh to the complexion of linen. Where he was to turn to
first puzzled Count Victor. He was free in a whimsical fashion,
indeed, for he was scarcely more than half-clad, and he wore a pair of
dancing-shoes, ludicrously inappropriate for walking in such weather
through the country. He was free, but he could not be very far yet from
his cell; the discovery of his escape might be made known at any moment;
and even now while he lingered here he might have followers in the
tunnel.

Taking advantage of the uncovered grass he climbed the bank and sought
the shelter of a thicket where the young trees grew too dense to permit
the snow to enter. From here another hazard of flight was manifest, for
he could see now that the face of the country outside on the level was
spread as with a tablecloth, its white surface undisturbed, ready for
the impress of so light an object as a hopping wren. To make his way
across it would be to drag his bonds behind him, plainly asking the
world to pull him back. Obviously there must be a more tactical retreat,
and without more ado he followed the river's course, keeping ever, as he
could, in the shelter of the younger woods, where the snow did not lie
or was gathered by the wind in alleys and walls. Forgotten was the cold
in his hurried flight through the trees; but by-and-by it compelled
his attention, and he fell to beating his arms in the shelter of a
plantation of yews.

"_Mort de ma vie!_" he thought while in this occupation, "why should I
not have a roquelaire? If his very ungracious Grace refuses to see
when a man is dying of cold for want of a coat, shall the m