s sense and memory returned to him, so did also the shadow of some
terrible doom hanging over his beloved young master; and though he was
still weak and ill, and very unfit for the long journey on horseback
through the heat of a summer's day, he would not hear of being left
behind, and was the one to urge upon the others all the haste possible
as they rode along southward after the foes who had captured Raymond.

On, on, on! there were no halts save for the needful rest and
refreshment, or to try to get fresh horses to carry them forward. A fire
seemed to burn in Gaston's veins as well as in those of Roger; and the
knowledge that they were on the track of the fugitives gave fresh ardour
to the pursuit at every halting place.

Only a few hours were allowed for rest and sleep during the darkest hour
of the short night, and then on -- on -- ever on, urged by an
overmastering desire to know what was happening to the prisoner behind
those gloomy walls.

Roger's sleep that night had been disturbed by hideous visions. He did
not appear to know or see anything that was passing; but a deep gloom
hung upon his spirit, and he many times woke shivering and crying out
with horror at he knew not what; whilst Gaston lay broad awake, a
strange sense of darkness and depression upon his own senses. He could
scarce restrain himself from springing up and summoning his weary
followers to get to horse and ride forth at all risks to the very doors
of Saut, and only with the early dawn of day did any rest or refreshment
fall upon his spirit.

Roger looked more himself as they rode forth in the dawn.

"Methinks we are near him now," he kept saying; "my heart is lighter
than it was. We will save him yet -- I am assured of it! He is not dead;
I should surely know it if he were. We are drawing nearer every step. We
may be with him ere nightfall."

"The walls of Saut lie betwixt us," said Gaston, rather grimly, but he
looked sternly resolute, as though it would take strong walls indeed to
keep him from his brother when they were so near.

The country was beginning to grow familiar to him. He picked up
followers in many places as he passed through. The name of De Brocas was
loved here; that of De Navailles was loathed, and hated, and feared.

Evening was drawing on. The woods were looking their loveliest in all
the delicate beauty of their fresh young green. Gaston, riding some
fifty yards ahead with Roger beside him, looked keenly about him