her will. A foot, another foot! A moment and it would be too late, the last of the sands would have run out. The bow of the boat rustled softly through the rushes; it kissed the bank. And her hand still held the letters.
“You are not hurt?” he asked curtly.
“No.”
“The scoundrel might have drowned you. Was he mad?”
She was silent. He held out his hand, and she gave him the packet.
“I owe you much,” he said, a ring of gaiety, almost of triumph, in his tone. “More than you guess, Madame. God made you for a soldier’s wife, and a mother of soldiers. What? You are not well, I am afraid?”
“If I could sit down a minute,” she faltered. She was swaying on her feet.
He supported her across the belt of meadow which fringed the bank, and made her recline against a tree. Then as his men began to come up—for the alarm had reached them—he would have sent two of them in the boat to fetch Madame St. Lo to her. But she would not let him.
“Your maid, then?” he said.
“No, Monsieur, I need only to be alone a little! Only to be alone,” she repeated, her face averted; and believing this he sent the men away, and, taking the boat himself, he crossed over, took in Madame St. Lo and Carlat, and rowed them to the ferry. Here the wildest rumours were current. One held that the Huguenot had gone out of his senses; another, that he had watched for this opportunity of avenging his brethren; a third, that his intention had been to carry off the Countess and hold her to ransom. Only Tavannes himself, from his position on the farther bank, had seen the packet of letters, and the hand which withheld them; and he said nothing. Nay, when some of
