recall what had befallen
him. Yet, at first, no recollection came; he could not recall any of
the events of the day--nothing. All was a blank. He had sufficient
sensibility, however--a sensibility that momentarily increased--to be
able to notice his surroundings and to observe that he lay in a
large-capacious bed in a commodious room, well furnished and hung with
handsome tapestry representing hunting scenes; also that at the
further end of the room by a hugh fireplace--now, of course,
empty--there stood a lamp with, by it, a deep chair in which a female
figure sat sleeping--a female whose dress betokened her a waiting
maid.

"Where am I?" he asked feebly, trying to send his voice to where she
sat. "And why am I here?"

The woman arose and came toward the bed and stood beside him; then she
said:

"You were found lying in the road outside the town."

"What town?"

"Rambouillet."

"Ah!--I remember. Yes."

"By my mistress, La Baronne de Louvigny. She had you brought here."

"She is very merciful to me, a stranger. A Christian woman."

To this the waiting maid made no reply; in her own heart she had no
belief in her mistress's mercy or Christianity--she had served her a
long while. Then she said:

"You had best sleep now. You are bruised and cut about the head. But
the doctor has bled you, and says you will soon be well. Where are you
going to?"

"To--I do not know. I cannot remember."

"Sleep now," the woman said, "sleep. It is best for you," and she left
the bedside and went back to the chair she had been sitting in when he
called to her.

The comfort of the bed combined with the feeling of weakness that was
upon him made it not difficult to obey her behest; yet ere he did so
he had sufficient of his senses left to him--or returned to him--to
raise his hand and discover by doing so that his clothes were not
removed; to satisfy himself that the brand upon his shoulder had not
yet been observed. Being so satisfied, he let himself subside into a
sleep once more.

Meanwhile, in a room near where he lay, La Baronne de Louvigny,
sometimes seated in a deep fauteuil, sometimes pacing the apartment
which formed her boudoir or dressing room, was meditating deeply upon
the chances which had thrown this man into her hands.

"_Mon Dieu!_" she muttered to herself, as she had done once before
while her _caleche_ had borne her back into the town of Rambouillet,
"if Raoul were but here! What shall I do with him? What