not to
weep, whereat she wept the more; and then I touched her shoulder with
my hand, as one would caress a child; but she shook me off, turning a
face that seemed scared with terror to me, and I could only stammer out
an apology, and remain silent. At last the violence of her grief
abated, and I ventured to ask who the dead man was.

"He," she answered sadly, "was a trusted servant, and he was taking me
home. His name was Olivet."

"Will not mademoiselle do me the honour to give me her name as well? I
am called Bertrand Broussel."

She looked up as I spoke, and a nervous laugh escaped her.

"I am glad I know your name, monsieur; it is one I shall always think
upon with gratitude. As for me, I--I am called Diane. I am the niece
of Cujus the furrier, a citizen of Tours, who is as a father to me. I
was going to rejoin him from Saumur when all this happened."

"Have you any friends near, where I can leave you?"

"Oh yes! Near Richelieu I have friends; and, once in the house of the
Bailiff of Muisson, I would be safe."

"I will see you there, with your permission."

"Thank you! And I want to tell you how this happened. I was going
back home from Saumur, under the charge of Olivet, and we halted at
Marcay to rest. About a half-hour after leaving Marcay we were set
upon and taken prisoners by the men from whom you have saved me.

"Where they were taking us I cannot tell. As evening came I heard your
voice singing, and, screaming for help, I slipped from my saddle, with
the intention of running towards you. Olivet made a brave effort to
help me--but----" And it was only with an effort that she prevented
another breakdown.

"Have you any idea who these men are?"

She remained silent, as if collecting her thoughts. And I went on:

"I ask because I recognised one--the leader."

"Ah, monsieur, I feared to mention his name. He is a great noble, and
he--he--but I cannot tell you." And she stopped, with a little shiver.

"You need not, madame. He is Simon, Vidame d'Orrain."

"Yes," she said, and our talk stopped. My cheeks were burning at the
thought of Simon's deed of shame, and I put this down to the long score
I had against him. And so on we rode, until we passed the skirts of
the forest, though still keeping to its edge, and came to a stretch of
moorland, beyond which was a series of small hills. We could now hear
water running like a mill-race, and from the hills there glinted the
lights of