“Let that pass, then. But, even there, I would not have thee underrate my service. Have I not, to save thee, annihilated time; called in a debt of gratitude that I kept in reversion for my own needs; suborned the very hangman’s carter that I might help thee in thy extremity?” “And all this is due to thee?” “Assuredly--and for what reason? Because, in total ignorance of thy claim to it, I took a fancy to a sweet face. Now I think you will acknowledge, M. le Comte, that the Revolution, for all its excesses, is capable of producing a gentleman of honour who knows how to make reparation.” “Truly, this is no small thing that you have done.” “Truly I think thou might’st apply superlatives to it, without extravagance. To outwit and baulk the Public Accuser--the cat-fish of the Committee of Safety--_Dame!_ is there a hole in all Paris too small to admit his tentacles? But I tell thee, monsieur, I am already in the prison of my own holy namesake.” “I would kiss thy hands, but----” “What now?” “My letter referred to other than myself.” He turned and, I thought, looked at me oddly. “In these days, what safer refuge for a woman than prison,” he said, “provided she hath a friend at Court? Understand, monsieur, I have found Mademoiselle de Lâge respectable lodgings, that is all.” “Where you hold her as Lovelace held the estimable Clarisse. Crépin, I cannot accept my life on these terms.” The words jerked on my lips as the waggon was brought to a stand with a suddenness that made the harness rattle. A tall figure, that seemed to have sprung out of the earth, stood at the horses’ heads. “Gusman,” said my companion quietly; “this is Citizen Thibaut, whom you are to conduct to the secret lodging. Hurry, then, Thibaut.” I got with some difficulty to the ground. “And you?” said I. “I go yet a mile to deliver my goods. We will discuss this matter further, _bien entendu_, on my return.” He flogged his cattle to an immediate canter, leaving me in all bewilderment alone with the stranger. On every side about us, it seemed, stretched a melancholy waste--a natural graveyard sown with uncouth slabs of stone. The wind swayed the grasses, as if they were foam on black water; the tide of night murmured in innumerable gulfs of darkness. “Come, then!” muttered the figure, and seized my hand. We walked twenty cautious paces. I felt the clutch of brambles at my clothes. Suddenly he put his arm about me, and, as we moved, forcibly bent down my head and shoulders. At once I was conscious of a confined atmosphere--damp, earthy, indescribable. It thickened--grew closer and infinitely closer as we advanced.