ink back into silence.

I felt this, and, bowing, said gravely: "There is no danger now,
mademoiselle. I doubt if our friends will return; but I fear it is far
to any refuge to-night."

My words had effect. She was brave enough, and she answered:

"We are not far from the Mable, monsieur!"

"From the Mable! Then Marcay is behind?"

"About six miles."

"Ah! I thought we had overridden ourselves. And Richelieu is at hand?"

"'Tis but a bare league."

"Then in two hours at most we will be there. You will, of course, ride
my horse, and Pierrebon and I will share the other."

"Thank you!" she said simply. And then with an effort, as she pointed
before her: "Monsieur, there is a man lying there who gave up his life
for me. I cannot leave him thus."

And Pierrebon answered: "There are two, lady. I have covered them with
their cloaks, for they are both dead."

"A moment," I said, and I too went and looked at the twain.

There was no mistake. For these two the trees and the sky, the good
and the bad of the world had ceased to be; and as I pulled their cloaks
over their faces I muttered to myself, with a remembrance of the course
of "The Philosophy":

"_Maximum vitae bonum mors_."

Then I came back to the lady's side. "Mademoiselle, for these two
lying there, the honest man and the knave, what can be done at present
has been done. Come, I pray you! It grows late."

"Oh, but I cannot!" And she too went forward to where the long dark
things lay stretched out on the sward, and shrinking, she looked, and
then on a sudden she sank on her knees, and prayed, and because,
whatever had happened, I had never lost my faith in God, without whom
we are nothing, I knelt too, and Pierrebon with me, and in our own way
we each sought comfort. After a while mademoiselle rose again, and
with a voice half choked with tears, said:

"Monsieur, I am ready."

We placed her on my brown horse, which Pierrebon led, I riding his, and
so we took our way in silence--a silence now and again broken by a sob
from the girl. I said nothing, deeming it wiser to let her be with her
thoughts; but as we came to the skirts of the wood I spoke:

"Mademoiselle, I promise you that I will see to the Christian burial of
your friend."

And then she wept unrestrainedly. To tell the truth, I knew not what
to do, and Pierrebon kept his head well to the front, looking neither
to the right nor to the left. In sheer desperation I asked her