"Tiens! monsieur," murmured Gwennola, as they paused at last under the safe shelter of the thicket. "Let us pause; your wound—ah, monsieur, it, I fear me, causes you much pain." "Nay," muttered d’Estrailles with white lips. "’Tis only a passing spasm; but, mademoiselle, the pain is naught compared to my wonderment, my gratitude, yet——" He hesitated, as Gwennola, throwing back her hood, laughed merrily up into his astonished yet doubting face. "See, monsieur," she cried, the dare-devil light of triumph dancing in her blue eyes. "You doubt! you wonder! You say to yourself, ’She is mad, this demoiselle of Brittany, who brings a sick man into a desolate forest, from whence it is impossible to flee from his enemies’; and yet, monsieur, though doubtless it is mad, this scheme of mine, it is more sensible than it appears. Yonder then is your horse, whom we must approach cautiously, for I would not that he proclaimed his master’s presence. ’But,’ you say to yourself, ’what use is even my good horse to me in this present plight? for, did I attempt to mount, my wound would give me such pain that I should fall swooning to the ground.’ Doubtless monsieur is right. But, see, I do not say, ’Mount, ride, monsieur, it is finished, my scheme.’ No, I say instead, ’Let us hasten a little way through this dreary forest, you and I and the good steed, and it will chance that we come in time to a spot more lonely and desolate than any in all the region round; here we shall find shelter—poor and strange it may appear, but the gracious saints will have monsieur in their fair keeping, and so it shall be that he will be safe from his enemies until such time as he is able to mount and ride on his way.’" "Mademoiselle," stammered d’Estrailles, as he raised her little hand to his lips. "Ah, mademoiselle, I am overwhelmed at such goodness, such generosity! Surely it is an angel in the garb of fairest womanhood whom the Blessed Mother hath sent to aid me from so black a snare!"