monsieur!—it is indeed the truth—if you kill me for
it, it is the truth!"

"Where is Madame Bouïsse?"

"Gone to bed, m'sieur!"

"Then wake her — tell her I must see her.
If she were dying, I must see her. Do you
hear?"

"Yes, m'sieur."

Trembling from head to foot, Jacques picked
up the lantern which he had dropped in his
extremity of terror, and led the way into the house.
They went straight to the housekeeper's chamber,
where William Trefalden thundered at the door
as if he would bring it down. Madame Bouïsse
made her appearance, well-nigh startled out of
her wits, and wrapped in the counterpane of her
bed.

It was quite true—undeniably true. The
young Englishman was gone, and had taken
mam'selle with him. They left about twenty
minutes or half an hour after monsieur took his
departure. Madame Bouïsse believed they were
gone to Bordeaux. Monsieur was free to search
the house if he chose; but he would assuredly
find that she, Madame Bouïsse, was not deceiving
him. They were gone.

Gone!

Without waiting to hear or utter another word,
he snatched the lantern from the boy's hand
and rushed up-stairs. From suite to suite, from
floor to floor, through rooms yet full of the
evidences of recent occupation, down again, out of
the house, and across the court-yard he went,
shivering the lantern to fragments on the wet
stones as he reached the gates! Then he paused,
turned, lifted up his hands in the darkness,
heaped curses on the place, and raged against it
impotently, like a madman.

Till now lie had been comparatively calm.
Busy with his scheme of vengeance, he had put
restraint upon his words, and even to a certain
degree upon his looks. But now—now he no
longer attempted to curb the fire within—now
the lava-tide of rage and hate welled-up and
overflowed, and bore him along, unresisting.

Gone!

Impelled by an instinct that seemed to take the
place of sight, he ran down the lane and out upon
the high road. The Lion d'Or was now closed
for the night; but he battered fiercely at the
door till it was opened. The landlord, sleepily
obsequious, ventured to remark that monsieur
was late; but William Trefalden interrupted him
at the first word.

"I must have a cabriolet and post-horses," he
said. " At once—do you hear?"

The landlord shook his head.

"Mon Dieu, monsieur!" he said, "the Lion
d'Or is not a posting-house."

"But you have horses?"

"None, monsieur."

"Then where can I get them? Quick—quick
for your life!"

"Nowhere in Drouay, monsieur."

"But is there no farmer, no shopkeeper, no
creature in the place who can be found to drive
me to Bordeaux? I will pay anything. Fool!
do you understand?—Anything!"

But the landlord only shrugged his shoulders
and protested that not a soul in Drouay would be
induced to undertake the job at such an hour,
and in such weather.

The lawyer clenched his teeth, and stamped
with rage.

"Then I must walk," he said. " Give me some
more brandy before I go."

The landlord held up his hands in feeble
expostulation. Walk! Great Heaven! Walk three
leagues and a half in this terrible storm! Let
monsieur only listen to the rain — listen to the
wind — think how dark it was, and how lonely!
Besides, monsieur was wet through already.

But Mr. Trefalden broke in with a fierce oath,
and bade the man hold his peace and bring the
brandy instantly.

Then he poured out half a tumblerful, drank
it recklessly, flung a napoleon on the table, and
rushed out again into the storm.

He was now utterly beside himself—his brain
reeling, his blood on fire, his whole frame throbbing
with fever and fury. The landlord of the
Lion d'Or, thankful to be rid of him, shut and
barred the door and went straightway up to bed,
resolved not to admit him again under any
circumstances. In the mean while he seemed to
have lost sight of his determination to walk to
Bordeaux, and went raving and gesticulating up
and down the village, where all, except himself,
were sleeping quietly.

Thus pacing to and fro like a caged beast, he
suddenly became aware of the approach of a
travelling-carriage. On it came, thundering
through the one straggling street of Drouay,
with flaring lamps, steaming horses, splash and
clatter of wheels, and the loud cracking of the
postilion's whip. He ran to meet it—he shouted
—he implored to be taken up—he would pay any
price only to stand upon the step, if they would
let him! But the postilion took him for a beggar,
and shook his whip at him; and the travellers
inside, cut off from him by windows opaque with
damp, and deafened by the rattle of their own
wheels and the pelting of the rain upon the
carriage roof, neither saw nor heard him. Still
he ran beside it, panting and shouting — tried to
clutch at the traces, but, receiving a savage lash
across the hands, fell back and made a desperate
effort to spring up behind. But all in vain. He
missed his hold; and the carriage swept on, and
left him there despairing.

Still, still he ran, fated, irresponsible, headlong
—now stumbling among the sharp flints in the
road—now getting up with hands all cut and
bleeding—now pausing to take breath—now
fancying he could still hear the retreating
wheels; and so, drenched, giddy, breathless, his
hat gone, his face and clothes disfigured with
mud and rain, rushing blindly on again!

Each moment the storm increased and the
wind rose higher, till at last it culminated in a