irst, Lapierre
the official had been inclined to babble, but at last he relieved his
mind by interjections only. He kept shaking his head wisely, as
though debating on great problems, and he drove his horses with a
master-hand--he had once been a coach driver on that long river-road,
which in summer makes a narrow ribbon of white, mile for mile with the
St. Lawrence from east to west. This was the proudest moment of his
life. He knew great things were at stake, and they had to do with the
famous singer, Lajeunesse; and what tales for his grandchildren in years
to come!

The flushed and comfortable Madame Marie sat upright in the coach,
holding the hand of her mistress, and Madelinette grew paler as the
miles diminished between her and Quebec. Yet she was quiet and unmoving,
now and then saying an encouraging word to Lapierre, who smacked his
lips for miles afterwards, and took out of his horses their strength and
paces by masterly degrees. So that when, at last, on the hill they saw
far off the spires of Quebec, the team was swinging as steadily on as
though they had not come twenty-five miles already. This was a moment of
pride for Lapierre, but of apprehension for Madelinette. At the last two
inns on the road she had got news of both Tardif and Havel. Tardif had
had the final start of half-an-hour. A half-hour's start, and fifteen
miles to go! But one thing was sure, Havel, the wiry Havel, was the
better man, with sounder nerve and a fostered strength.

Yet, as they descended the hill and plunged into the wild wooded valley,
untenanted and uncivilised, where the road wound and curved among giant
boulders and twisted through ravines and gorges, her heart fell within
her. Evening was at hand, and in the thick forest the shadows were
heavy, and night was settling upon them before its time.

They had not gone a mile, however, when, as they swung creaking round
a great boulder, Lapierre pulled up his horses with a loud exclamation,
for almost under his horses' feet lay a man apparently dead, his horse
dead beside him.

It was Havel. In an instant Madelinette and Ma dame Marie were bending
over him. The widow of the Little Chemist had skill and presence of
mind.

"He is not dead, dear mine," said she in a low voice, feeling Havel's
heart.

"Thank God," was all that Madelinette could say. "Let us lift him into
the coach."

Now Lapierre was standing beside them, the reins in his hand. "Leave
that to me," he said, an