t the dusk had fallen, and that he must
be a very, very long way from Sur Varne.

Felix then began to grow uneasy. He stood still and looked anxiously about
him; the dark forest trees closed around him on all sides, and he was
quite unable to remember from which direction he had entered the wood.

Now, Felix was really a very brave little fellow, but he fairly quaked as
he peered through the gathering darkness; for in those days the forests of
Provence were known to harbor many dangerous animals, especially wild
boars and wolves. He pricked up his ears, and now and then thought he
heard in the distance the stealthy tread of some four-footed forest
prowler, and once he was sure he caught the deep howl of a wolf.

That ended his hesitation. He looked quickly around, and grasping the low
boughs of a slender sapling, managed to swing himself up into a tall
chestnut-tree that grew close by; and there he clung, clutching the thick
branches with might and main, feeling very cold and hungry and miserable,
his heart all the while sinking clear down into his little peasant shoes.

And indeed he had cause for fear, for, not a great while after he had thus
hidden himself, a gaunt wolf really did pass close by, sniffing and
peering, till poor Felix fairly gave up all hope of escaping from the
tree; but, luckily, the wolf did not see him, and at last slowly crept on
through the underwood.

How long the little boy stayed in the perilous shelter of the
chestnut-tree he never knew, but it seemed untold ages to him. After a
while the moon rose, and shed a faint light through the close-lapping
branches; and then, by and by, Felix's ears, strained to listen for
every lightest sound, caught the echo of distant tramping, as of horses'
hoofs, and presently two horsemen came in sight, picking their way
cautiously along a narrow bridle-path.

He did not know whom they might prove to be, but wisely thinking that
anything would be better than staying in a tree all night at the mercy of
hungry wolves, he waited till the first rider came quite close, and then
he plucked up courage to call out faintly: "Oh, sir, stop, I pray thee!"

At this, the rider, who was none other than the noble Count Bernard of
Bois Varne, quickly drew rein and, turning, called to his companion:

"Ho, Brian! Heardest thou aught?"

"Nay, my lord," answered Brian, who was some paces behind, "naught save
the trampling of our own horses' hoofs."

The count looked all a