hand was a thing to my fancy. Ah, well! I was young then. At the count's table that day I determined to go, if I could get leave.
Thérèse and a young Parisienne, her friend, were at luncheon with us. They bade us adieu and went away for a gallop as we took cigars. We had no sooner left the dining room than I called for my horse. Due at the Harbor that evening, I could give myself no longer to the fine hospitality of the count. In a few moments I was bounding over the road, now cool in deep forest shadows. A little way on I overtook Thérèse and the Parisienne. The former called to me as I passed. I drew rein, coming back and stopping beside her. The other went on at a walk.
"M'sieur le Capitaine, have you any news of them—of Louise and Louison?" she inquired. "You and my father were so busy talking I could not ask you before."
"I know this only: they are in captivity somewhere, I cannot tell where."
"You look worried, M'sieur le Capitaine; you have not the happy face, the merry look, any longer. In June you were a boy, in August
