re in the angle formed by the Mable and the
Veude, and here, where Poitou slopes towards the sea, the country still
retains, with a roughness like unto that of Auvergne, all the freshness
of La Marche. Far south was a dreary plain, but around us the land
billowed into low hillocks, that stood over long stretches of stunted
forest.

We rode in silence, except when now and again I spoke a word of warning
in regard to the state of the road, or to regulate the pace. I began
to wonder how long mademoiselle would hold out; and my doubts were soon
set at rest. It was whilst crossing the almost dry bed of one of the
small streams, spreading like veins over the country, that she suddenly
reined up.

"I cannot go farther," she said faintly; and calling a halt I looked
around me. A little distance from the track, which wound before us
amongst the glistening stones, lay a dark grove of trees. I pointed at
them.

"We will rest there, mademoiselle. 'Tis barely fifty paces; bear up
till then!" And dismounting I walked by the side of her horse.

Short as the distance was I was in doubt if she would hold out, and as
I glanced at her I saw even by the moonlight how white and drawn was
her face, and then she began to sway in her seat. Calling to Pierrebon
to take the reins of her horse I tried to hold her in the saddle, but,
feeling her slipping, I put my unhurt arm around her and lifted her to
the ground. For a little space she stood as one dazed, leaning against
me with closed eyes, and then with an effort recovered herself and drew
back.

"I am able to walk, monsieur--I--how far is it?"

"Only a step now." And, still supporting her, I led her onward until
we reached the trees.

"We are here, mademoiselle." And taking her into the shade of a huge
walnut-tree I flung my cloak on the grass, and made her sit thereon,
whilst we hedged her around with saddlery. It was done as quickly as
we could, and the tired girl leaned back against the saddles utterly
wearied and exhausted. I stood watching her for a little, and then
with a whispered word to Pierrebon about the horses stepped aside. I
could do no more; but my heart was heavy within me, for I feared the
result of exposure for her.

A few yards off a withered tree stood apart, an outcast from its
fellows. The thought struck me as I went up to it, and tapped the
decayed trunk with my fingers: "You and I, my friend--we have seen our
past, and are out of the pale now.