there is a dagger at your girdle. Could you not have driven it
through his heart?"

But La Marmotte only looked at the Vidame foolishly, and from the far
distance there came through the night the sound of a horn.

"It is Aramon returning," exclaimed Simon; "we have them yet." And
leaving La Marmotte where she stood he followed on our footsteps, his
dagger in his unwounded hand.

On he went, with uncertain, wavering footsteps, and fury in his heart.
He meant to kill if he could. It was in Simon's mind to make a sudden,
desperate attack. An unexpected stroke from his poniard might free him
from me, and his prize might yet be his. As for the varlet--Simon gave
Pierrebon not a thought. But as he went on his wounded arm began to
sting and bleed afresh. A faintness came upon him, and, overcome by
the pain and loss of blood, he sank down all dizzy behind the high
privet, a cold sweat on his forehead. In impotent fury he struck his
dagger to the hilt in the soft turf at his side, and, still holding the
haft, leaned forward and peered through the hedge. Then as he crouched
he heard quick voices, and then three mounted figures rode across the
parterres to the gate. Again the sound of the horn rang out, and Simon
heard Pierrebon's voice.

"The other wasps come back, monsieur! Hasten! Let us be off!"

"But not before I have struck a blow," answered Simon, as, heartened by
the sound of the horn, he gathered himself together and made for the
gate, only to see us pass through it ere he had gone ten paces.

He reached the gate somehow, and stared into the night. We were gone.
We had turned to the right in the direction of the river, and were
already hidden from view by the woods.

Twice Simon heard the beat of hoofs as the horses dashed over the hard
ground, and after that all was still.

"If Aramon would but come!" he groaned; and then, through the moonlit
haze on the left, where the moorland stretched long and brown, came the
sound of hoarse voices, and a loud laugh, and upon this a line of about
half-a-dozen horsemen appeared riding slowly towards the house.

"Aramon! Aramon! Here! To me!"

At his call they put spurs to their beasts, and were soon beside
him--an evil-looking set of knaves, mounted on horses foam-flecked and
weary with hard going. Simon gave them no time for speech, but shouted:

"After them! After them! Else they escape!"

"After whom, monseigneur?" asked he who appeared to be their