The poor woman felt her assurance vanishing more and more. She had reached the point of blundering, and she comprehended with terror that she was saying what she ought not to have said.
Here another soldier came up, crying,—
"Monsieur, the old hag lies. The sorceress did not flee through the Rue de Mouton. The street chain has remained stretched all night, and the chain guard has seen no one pass."
Tristan, whose face became more sinister with every moment, addressed the recluse,— "What have you to say to that?"
She tried to make head against this new incident,—
"That I do not know, monseigneur; that I may have been mistaken. I believe, in fact, that she crossed the water."
"That is in the opposite direction," said the provost, "and it is not very likely that she would wish to re-enter the city, where she was being pursued. You are lying, old woman."
"And then," added the first soldier, "there is no boat either on this side of the stream or on the other."
"She swam across," replied the recluse, defending her ground foot by foot.
"Do women swim?" said the soldier.
"Tête Dieu! old woman! You are lying!" repeated Tristan angrily. "I have a good mind to abandon that sorceress and take you. A quarter of an hour of torture will, perchance, draw the truth from your throat. Come! You are to follow us."
She seized on these words with avidity.
"As you please, monseigneur. Do it. Do it. Torture. I am willing. Take me away. Quick, quick! let us set out at once!—During that time," she said to herself, "my daughter will make her escape."
"'S death!" said the provost, "what an appetite for the rack! I understand not this madwoman at all."
An old, gray-haired sergeant of the guard stepped out of the ranks, and addressing the provost,—
"Mad in sooth, monseigneur. If she released the gypsy, it was not her fault, for she loves not the gypsies. I have been
