“At need, I might.”
“And do you not see the converse implication? Do you not see that your hands would then be tied, that you would be wanting in honour if afterwards you refused him? And do you think that I would consent to anything that could so tie your hands? Do you think I want to see you damned, Aline?”
Her hand fell away from his arm.
“Oh, you are mad!” she exclaimed, quite out of patience.
“Possibly. But I like my madness. There is a thrill in it unknown to such sanity as yours. By your leave, Aline, I think I will ride on to Gavrillac.”
“André, you must not! It is death to you!” In her alarm she backed her horse, and pulled it across the road to bar his way.
It was almost completely night by now; but from behind the wrack of clouds overhead a crescent moon sailed out to alleviate the darkness.
“Come, now,” she enjoined him. “Be reasonable. Do as I bid you. See, there is a carriage coming up behind you. Do not let us be found here together thus.”
He made up his mind quickly. He was not the man to be actuated by false heroics about dying, and he had no fancy whatever for the gallows of M. de Lesdiguières’ providing. The immediate task that he had set himself might be accomplished. He had made heard—and ringingly—the voice that M. de La Tour d’Azyr imagined he had silenced. But he was very far from having done with life.
“Aline, on one condition only.”
“And that?”
“That you swear to me you will never seek the aid of M. de La Tour d’Azyr on my behalf.”
“Since you insist, and as time presses, I consent. And now ride on with me as far as the lane. There is that carriage coming up.”
The lane to which she referred was one that branched off the road some three hundred yards nearer the village and led straight up the hill to the château itself. In silence they rode together towards it, and together they turned into that thickly hedged and narrow bypath. At a depth of fifty yards she halted him.
“Now!” she bade him.
Obediently he swung down from his horse, and surrendered the reins to her.
“Aline,” he said, “I haven’t words in which to thank you.”
“It isn’t necessary,” said she.
“But I shall hope to repay you some day.”
“Nor is that necessary. Could I do less than I am doing? I do not want to hear of you hanged, André; nor does my uncle, though he is very angry with you.”
“I suppose he is.”
“And you can hardly be surprised. You were his delegate, his representative. He depended upon you, and you have turned your coat. He is rightly indignant, calls you a traitor, and swears that he will never speak to you again. But he doesn’t want you hanged, André.”
“Then we are agreed on that at least, for I don’t want it myself.”
“I’ll make your peace with him. And now—goodbye, André. Send me a word when you are safe.”
She held out a hand that looked ghostly in the faint light. He took it and bore it to his lips.
“God bless you, Aline.”
She was gone, and he stood listening to the receding clopper-clop of hooves until it grew faint in the distance. Then slowly, with shoulders hunched and head sunk on his breast, he retraced his steps to the main road, cogitating whither he should go. Quite suddenly he checked, remembering with dismay that he was almost entirely without money. In Brittany itself he knew of no dependable hiding-place, and as long as he was in Brittany his peril must remain imminent. Yet to leave the province, and to leave it as quickly as prudence dictated, horses would be necessary. And how was he to procure horses, having no money beyond a single louis d’or and a few pieces of silver?
There was also the fact that he was very weary. He had had little sleep since Tuesday night, and not very much then; and much of the time had been spent in the saddle, a wearing thing to one so little accustomed to long rides. Worn as he was, it was unthinkable that he should go far tonight. He might get as far as Chavagne, perhaps. But there he must sup and sleep; and what, then, of tomorrow?
Had he but thought of it before, perhaps Aline might have been able to assist him with the loan of a few louis. His first impulse now was to follow her to the château. But prudence dismissed the notion. Before he could reach her, he must be seen by servants, and word of his presence would go forth.
There was no choice for him; he must tramp as far as Chavagne, find a bed there, and leave tomorrow until it dawned. On the resolve he set his face in the direction whence he had come. But again he paused. Chavagne lay on the road to Rennes. To go that way was to plunge further into danger. He would strike south again. At the foot of some meadows on this side of the village there was a ferry that would put him across the river. Thus he would avoid the village; and by placing the river between himself and the immediate danger, he would obtain an added sense of security.
A lane, turning out of the highroad, a quarter of a mile this side of Gavrillac, led down to that ferry. By this lane some twenty minutes later came André-Louis with dragging feet. He avoided the little cottage of the ferryman, whose window was alight, and in the dark crept down to the boat, intending if possible to put himself across. He felt for the chain by which the boat was moored, and ran his fingers along this to the point where it was fastened. Here to his dismay he found a padlock.
He stood up in the gloom and laughed silently. Of course he might have known it. The ferry
