"Nay, that will I not," retorted de Mereac sturdily, "for I would not rob the devil of such choice morsels.—How now, Job, what news dost thou bring? Where is thy prisoner?" "Nay, my lord," faltered Job Alloadec, as he advanced, sweating and abashed, towards his irate master, "I fear me that he hath escaped, for, though we searched the forest from the château walls to Martigue itself, we could find no trace of the miscreant." "Curses on him!" growled de Mereac. "But I know thy searchings, knave, with one eye shut and the other gazing upwards, as if thou expectest thy quarry to drop like a ripe nut from the boughs overhead. Why, the fellow must needs be within reach, since he had no steed to carry him." "Nay, monsieur," replied the soldier with a perplexed stare at his master, "craving your pardon, methinks he found a steed awaiting him yonder in the forest, for when we rode to the ruined chapel" (Job involuntarily crossed himself) "to fetch hitherward Monsieur d’Estrailles’ steed, which he told us was harboured close by, we found no trace of it, though we searched not only the shed but the ruins too." "By the beard of St Efflam, the villain hath escaped!" growled de Mereac furiously, "the fiends verily having assisted him, for else, how knew he where to find the Frenchman’s horse?" Job scratched his head doubtfully. It was to him altogether an affair of Satanic agencies, and as he left his lord’s presence with fresh orders to continue the search, however hopeless, he again crossed himself, little dreaming that he and his fellow-searchers had been more than once that day within a stone’s throw not only of the Frenchman’s horse, but of de Coray himself, sitting quietly within the sheltered hut of Pierre the fool. It was a grief indeed to Henri d’Estrailles when he heard of the loss of his favourite horse—that the poor Rollo should be condemned to carry his master’s would-be murderer out of reach of the hand of justice seemed a fate altogether unworthy of so gallant a beast, and one which filled d’Estrailles with so keen a sorrow as could not well be compensated by the generous gift of a splendid grey Arab from the Sieur de Mereac himself. The old Breton noble bade his guest a characteristic adieu, bluff, hearty, yet in no way concealing his satisfaction at his departure. But though Henri d’Estrailles found little encouragement from his host’s evident, though courteously concealed antagonism, he still clung to hope as he bade a tender farewell to Gwennola. That love must triumph over all obstacles is the gospel of youth, and so thought those two as they looked their last into each other’s eyes.