we rode slowly at first, lagging behind the paris post, and still slowly when we turned south.

"not too fast till the horses are warmed to their work," said lesellè, and i, with a fevered, grudging impatience reined mesrour back to a trot.

but once across the cher the pace quickened, and on every flat and down every slope, we tore at a gallop. the road was good, smooth, broad and hard, louis and corvée had seen to that. pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop! a race for a man's life, said monseigneur. pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop! it was all that, and more than that for me—it was a race for a woman's soul. how could there be a god at all if this monstrous iniquity of poictiers came to pass? pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop! the intermingling beat of our horses' hoofs rang their rhythm in my head; a race—for the life—of a man; a race—for the life—of a man; a race—for a wom—an's soul; over and over again, till i almost screamed at the iteration.

a swerve down the hill to the valley of the indre broke into the beat. with a splash we plunged into the river, and walked our panting beasts up the further slope.

"do we keep our time, monsieur lesellè?"

"we more than keep it, mademoiselle. accidents apart, there is only one thing to fear."

"what is that?"

"wolves."

"i am not afraid, monsieur lesellè."

"i know it, mademoiselle, nor do i mean fear for ourselves," and with a thrust of the spur we rode on; by reaped cornfields, a race—for the life—of a man; through broad pastures, waste lands and commonage, pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop! a race—for a wom—an's soul; under leafy arches, where the trees, grappling, met overhead and rasped their boughs in a rising wind. what a race it was, and how the blood drummed in the ears, how the courage rose as the night-wind blew cool in the face! pa-lop, pa-lop, pa——crash! bay zadok was down, and lesellè lay in the ditch groaning. but before i could jump from the saddle he was on his feet again, stooping over the horse. a minute or two he fumbled at it in the dark, muttering to himself.

"hurt," he said curtly. "mesrour must carry double to sainte maure. mademoiselle, shift your foot from the stirrup an instant—yes, i have it now."

in the gloom, i felt rather than saw him grip at mesrour's gear. with a swing he was up behind me on the croup, but as he steadied himself he moaned.

"are you also hurt, monsieur?"

"it is nothing," he answered, grasping my belt, "nothing at all; ride on."

god be thanked, it was not far, and at a trot we entered the straggle of dim grey huts that called itself sainte maure. rounding a curve, a mellow glare flared from a doorstep.

"monseigneur's posting-house," said lesellè, and slipped to the ground. "within there! horses, horses! in the king's name!"

they were alert and waiting. a head, cowled like a priest's, peered round the jamb.

"two minutes, monsieur, two minutes; there is no more than to tighten the girths."

"better dismount and stretch your legs, mademoiselle," said lesellè. "two minutes means ten."

"are we on time?"

"better than that; one third the way, and the hour not much more than gone eleven."

"bay zadok?"

"ah, mademoiselle! if we could but have put him out of pain!"

"poor beast! so bad as that? what of your own hurt? ungrateful that i am, i had forgotten it."

"nothing, mademoiselle, nothing at all," and he turned into the shadow of the thatched house, crying out, "quick with the horses! the king is in haste!"

the king is in haste! a true word. there were two kings in haste, the king of life and love and the king of sorrows. in my impatience i smote my palms together.

"will they never bring the horses! monsieur lesellè! monsieur lesellè——"

"here they come, mademoiselle."

down a lane between the huts, a lane smelling of unutterable vileness, came the night-capped figure, a bridle on either arm.

"do you give monsieur a hand; ride on, i'll follow," said lesellè, and like a bolt i shot into the dark. this time i could brook no cautious warming into work.

behind me lesellè shouted for god's sake to wait; but i only cried back, follow, follow, follow! and spurred on. it was three leagues before he caught me up, and then only because the creuse at port-de-piles stopped me. six, eight, ten minutes i waited, chafing. but the river was brawling, and i dared not face the water alone. lesellè's words were a warning. only wolves or accident can stop us, and i feared the last more than the first.

when at length he came through the gloom he was swaying in his saddle.

"now i know why you lagged behind!" i cried sharply. "shame, boy, shame! monsieur de commines said i could trust you. is this a time to drink yourself drunk?"

steadying himself by an effort he turned to the left, making neither retort nor protest.

"the ford is upstream, mademoiselle," was all he said.

that he took the rebuke so meekly turned the edge of my anger, righteous though it was, and i followed him without further comment. but as we crossed the stream, i riding on his left, midway my horse stumbled, and i cried out, for the waiting had broken down my self-control. promptly he dropped the reins from his right hand, catching at my bridle. but reaching across his body he missed it, and i recovered of myself, shaken and out of temper.

"try your nearer hand next time."

"yes, mademoiselle," he answered submissively, and splashing on through the shallow water of the ford led up the road.

but now galloping was no longer possible because of loose stones and greasy ruts. so sure as we pushed on beyond our cautious trot our beasts stumbled, nor did the track improve till we had passed ingrande. twice i broke out on lesellè, once in tears and once lashing him with my tongue as if the fault was his. but he either kept silence and rode on doggedly, or answered, always submissively, that there was no better path, and that the going was faster beyond chatellerault.

but in chatellerault there was again a check.

the corne d'abondance was asleep from garret to cellar, and ten precious minutes were wasted before lesellé, having beaten the door in vain, at last roused life by flinging a stone through an open window. then a man leaned out, cursing. but lesellè cursed him back in two languages, and cried out for the horses that were to be ready in the king's name. but there had either been a blunder or treachery: the horses were ordered for the night following, and again he cursed us for thieves.

"at your peril!" cried lesellè. "if the king's business miscarries because of you, by god! you'll hang! you know the king's way."

"to-morrow night," answered the fellow, "that was the order, and it is the king's way to be obeyed to the letter."

in the end it was lesellè's archer's dress that saved us, and thereafter there was no delay. but there had been a desperate waste of time, and as we galloped out of chatellerault it seemed to me the east was grey.

the road was now a steady rise, with the clain on our left glimmering in and out of the hosts of trunks that stretched from mirebeaud to the river's bank. the wind was growing with the dawn, but so buried were we in leafage we scarcely heard the rustle. from the right, not far off, came the short, gasping bark of a fox; that, with the pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop, of the hoofs on the hard, sound road, was the only life.

so dark was it we dared not touch a bridle, but with a loose rein plied whip and spur in our race for a man's life.

"are we on time?" i cried to lesellè, who led the way.

"please god!" he cried back across his shoulder, and stooping low to avoid the downward thrust of the branches, rode on.

please god! when a man says, please god! he doubts. little by little the strain of the gallop on the rising hill began to tell on the horses, and their speed slackened. the smooth, easy motion shortened to a lumpish gait, and at a very sharp rise they stopped, half stumbling.

"how far to poictiers?"

"five leagues, mademoiselle."

"and the hour?"

all lesellè's boyish ardour was gone. he rode like an old man, slouching in the saddle, his chin sunk on his breast. at my question i saw him raise his head and look at me, his face white against the overhung blackness of the night.

"mademoiselle, i have done my best."

"the hour, monsieur, if you please?"

"gone four, i think."

"oh!" and with a savage lash i brought down the whip on my beast's sweating flank. "dawn in an hour! lesellè, lesellè, is there nothing will drive them on?"

"they are only blown, mademoiselle; give them time."

"time? who will give gaspard de helville time? god of love! is there nothing—nothing to drive them on?"

i have never ceased to count it a miracle, and a proof how, out of evil, the almighty can bring good. but two things can stop us, lesellè had said, wolves or accident. of the two, i feared the last more than the first, and even as i spoke there came the howl of a wolf through the silence, a howl caught up and answered again and again from right and left till the vast wood seemed full of howls. as he heard the baying, the beast under me stopped dead still, his skin creeping with fear till the shudder shook me in the saddle; then with a scream he bolted forward, and on we dashed as if the hounds of hell were loose coursing a soul.

"lower, stoop lower!" cried lesellè as the horses swerved, still holding the road. "keep a drag on the right rein, mademoiselle!"

instinctively, but without comprehension, i obeyed, and the rasp of a low-hung bough along my back taught me the lad's wisdom. to the left was the river, and at all hazards we must keep the road. let such a branch catch me across the breast, and my dawn would break more redly than gaspard's, and sooner by an hour. such a thing as that i dreaded, but not the wolves. the wolves? their howl was salvation, and with my face buried in the drifting mane, i thanked god for the wolves.

jesu! what a race it was! men have said, were you not afraid? but with that wild rush of wind in the face, with the swelled veins throbbing under my cheek, with the sobbing catch in the breath growing hoarser almost every stride, there was no time for conscious fear. if i thought at all, it was that the pace could not last, that poictiers was far away and the dawn near, that the sob was growing hoarser, hoarser, till the breath in the windpipes roared like the rasping of a file. then lesellè shouted, "halt, halt, halt!" and straining on the bit, i pulled the staggering beast to a stand.

behind was the howling of the wolves, but down the road ahead came the clatter of hoofs.

"life or death," said the lad, panting in sympathy with his moaning horse, "but in another furlong or two it would have been——halt! halt there! horses in the king's name; horses for life or death!"

no need now to tell that it was for life. a north bound train from poictiers saved us; but as we rode on the dawn was grey even in the thick of the wood, and on our left the east flared to a red glare as of the last day.

again it was whip and spur, nor, with no more than a scant league to go, was there need to spare the horses. spare them? we drove them along at the dagger's point. but the throbbing exultation born of that wild burst had died away, and it was a weary, trembling, white-faced woman who, leading the scots lad by ten lengths, splashed uuhalting through the clain and galloped up the hill to the newly opened gate, for the sun was fully risen, and down the valley of the clain the morning mists were all a-swim with glory.

before the gate the guard stretched themselves, yawning, and when i would have passed, one caught my bridle. but with a wrench i dragged it from his grasp.

"a pardon!" i cried, my lips dry and cracked, my woman's voice harsh and shrill by turns. "the king is dead! long live the king! i bear a pardon from king charles!"

with that they closed in upon me, clamouring, and lesellè rode up.

"tell them," i gasped, "tell them as we go, but in god's name, let us ride on. monsieur de helville!—a pardon from the king!"

the name pricked them.

"de helville?" cried one, flinging out a level arm to point ahead. "on—on—to the right—in front of notre dame; perhaps there is still time."

oh! that last dash through the still streets in the cool of the morning! at my right was lesellè, his face whiter than my own. his left hand was thrust through his belt, the palm flattened outwards. bay zadok had broken the arm, and all through the night he had ridden in his pain, making no moan. but i had no thought of pity for him, my thought was all with the packed crowd before us, a crowd that filled the square and overflowed into every avenue of approach, choking them. when louis said, do this! it was the people's wisdom to obey; and, even under louis, a seigneur was not hung every day of the week!

dropping the reins, lesellè drew his sword and pushed on ahead.

"god save king charles!" he cried, standing in his stirrups and shouting till the cry roared down even the buzzing clamour of the crowd. "god save king charles! a pardon! a pardon!"

how such a knitted throng could part asunder i do not know; who went down under whose feet in the surge backwards i do not know; but the roar, the thundering gallop, and the naked steel cleft them like a plough cutting a furrow through a sodden field, and we burst into the square unchecked.

in the centre was a hollow kept clear of rabble by treble lines of soldiers, and we, looking above the swaying sea of heads, saw what they guarded—a gibbet, a wheeled platform drawn by oxen, and on the platform three men; they were gaspard, father paulus, and another. a short ladder rose slanting above the wheel.

"god save king charles!" we cried, "god save king charles! a pardon! a pardon! the king is dead, is dead; god save the king!"

what a silence fell upon the crowd! what a silence! it was stiller than death itself. then a roar broke out, drowning our puny outcry.

"long live king charles! long live king charles!"

but for myself i say this: another king had indeed come to his throne that day; a greater than louis who was dead, a greater than charles who had come to his own; a greater than any king who ever reigned in france; for it was the king of life and love.

the lord god be praised for all his faithful mercies!