t a woman's submission. He was more
determined than ever now to win her, but he wanted to win her through
her humiliation and his triumph--excitement had turned his brain? Well!
so be it, fear and oppression would turn her heart and crush her pride.

He made no further attempt to detain her: he had asked for a kind word
and she had given him withering scorn. Excitement had turned his brain
. . . he was not even worthy of parley--not even worthy of a formal
refusal!

To his credit be it said that the thought of immediate revenge did not
enter his mind then. He might have subjected her then and there to
deadly outrage--he might have had her personal effects searched, her
person touched by the rough hands of his soldiers. But though his
estimate of a woman's love was a low one, it was not so base as to
imagine that Crystal de Cambray would ever forgive so dastardly an
insult.

As she walked past him to the door, however, he said under his breath:

"Remember, Mademoiselle, that you and your family at this moment are
absolutely in my power, and that it is only because of my regard for you
that I let you all now depart from here in peace."

Whether she heard or not, he could not say; certain it is that she made
no reply, nor did she turn toward him at all. The light of the lanthorn
lit up her delicate profile, pale and drawn, her tightly pressed lips,
the look of utter contempt in her eyes, which even the fitful shadow
cast by her hair over her brows could not altogether conceal.

The Comte had given what instructions he wished to Pierre. He stood by
the carriage door waiting for his daughter: no doubt he had heard what
went on between her and de Marmont, and was content to leave her to deal
what scorn was necessary for the humiliation of the traitor.

He helped Crystal into the carriage, and also the unfortunate Jeanne;
finally he too followed, and pulled the door to behind him.

Victor did not wait to see the coach make a start. He gave the order to
remount.

"How far are we from St. Priest?" he asked.

"Not eight kilometres, mon Colonel," was the reply.

"En avant then, ventre-a-terre!" he commanded, as he swung himself into
the saddle.

The great high road between Grenoble and Lyons is very wide, and Pierre
had no need to draw his horses to one side, as de Marmont and his troop,
after much scrambling, champing of bits and clanking of metal, rode at a
sharp trot past the coach and him.

For some few moments