“Westwards,” she answered impulsively, her voice quivering with eagerness and emotion and hope. “Westwards, Monsieur—on the sea. The causeway from the land is long, and ten can hold it against ten hundred.”
“Westwards? And how far westwards?”
Tignonville answered for her; in his tone throbbed the same eagerness, the same anxiety, which spoke in hers. Nor was Count Hannibal’s ear deaf to it.
“Through Challans,” he said, “thirteen leagues.”
“From Clisson?”
“Yes, Monsieur le Comte.”
“And by Commequiers less,” the Countess cried.
“No, it is a worse road,” Tignonville answered quickly; “and longer in time.”
“But we came”
“At our leisure, Madame. The road is by Challans, if we wish to be there quickly.”
“Ah!” Count Hannibal said. In the darkness it was impossible to see his face or mark how he took it. “But being there, I have few men.”
“I have forty will come at call,” she cried with pride. “A word to them, and in four hours or a little more”
“They would outnumber mine by four to one,” Count Hannibal answered coldly, dryly, in a voice like ice-water flung in their faces. “Thank you, Madame; I understand. To Vrillac is no long ride; but we will not ride it at present.” And he turned sharply on his heel and strode from them.
He had not covered thirty paces before she overtook him in the middle of a broad patch of moonlight, and touched his arm. He wheeled swiftly, his hand halfway to his hilt. Then he saw who it was.
“Ah,” he said, “I had forgotten, Madame. You have come”
“No!” she cried passionately; and standing before him
