of Charenton, and but a league and a
half before us lay Paris, silhouetted in purple and grey against the
sky. We were trotting round the elbow of the wood that fringed the
banks of the Maren when we came suddenly on our man. He was seated on
the wall of the bridge, holding the reins of his horse in his hands;
and he saw us too, for we were scarce a hundred paces off. He was away
like a flash, looking but once behind him as he drove his spurs home,
and raced for Paris.

De Lorgnac gave a great cry, and neck and neck we followed him. If
ever man knew his peril, Simon did. Against one he would have fought
like a wolf; but against two the odds were hopeless, and with the rage
of a wolf in his heart he fled, taking to the country away from the
road in the hope of shaking us off.

As for me, I felt the hot blood throbbing in my temples, and all seemed
dark around me, except there where that bowed figure on the white horse
raced in front, carrying death in his hands, death for her who was to
me more than life. Lizette seemed to know it too, and stretched
beneath me like a greyhound; but I heard the sobbing breath that told
me of a beaten horse. Foot by foot De Lorgnac drew from me, the great
grey going like a stag; but still Simon held the front, and we gained
not a yard on him. Already we could see the Porte St. Michel lying
open before us; and now Simon looked back once more, and pointed at the
gate, laughing in triumph as he did so. It was then that my gallant
Lizette made a supreme effort. It seemed as if in two strides she had
caught up the grey and passed him; only to falter as she did so; then
there was a long stagger, and down she came.

By God's providence I was able to regain my feet almost as I fell. De
Lorgnac had pulled up beside me; but pointing to Simon, who had now
passed the gate, I called out: "Follow him; do not lose sight of him!"

With a nod he galloped on, and casting one look to the side of the road
where all that remained of my brave Lizette lay, I hurried after the
two.

The gates were not two hundred paces from me; and, sword in hand, as I
ran towards them someone came trotting up to me. I thought he was
riding at me, and had all but slashed his mount across the face, when
he pulled up, and I saw it was Le Brusquet on his mule.

"Hold!" he cried; "it is I. He cannot escape. De Lorgnac is on his
heels, and I have set the mob after him with a hue and cry." With this
he jumped from