“I recall my words,” I said. “You have a chance, after all, down there in Bordeaux. And now I see that it is a thief that fears a spy.” I pointed at the wench. She was dressed, ridiculously, inappropriately, in a silk gown of a past fashion, but rich in quality, and decorated with a collar of point-lace. Out of this her dirty countenance, thatched with a villainous mop of hair, stuck grotesquely; and the skirt of the dress had been roughly caught up to disencumber her bare feet. The man stamped on the ground. “I do not fear you!” he cried furiously, “and I am no thief!” I laughed derisively. “But it is true!” he shouted. “A young lady we met in the woods of Coutras would exchange it for Nannette’s _jupon_; and why the devil should we deny her?” My heart gave a sudden swerve. “What was she like, this lady?” I said. The fellow glanced sulkily askance at me. “Does not the spy know?” he said. “Perhaps he does. Say this demoiselle was slender and of a reasonable height; that she had brown hair, and grey eyes under dark brows; that her face was of a cold, transparent whiteness; that she spoke with a certain soft huskiness in her voice.” He cried under his breath, with a note of fright, “The devil is in this man!” I laughed and took off my hat and made the two a bow. “To your quick advancement in Bordeaux!” I said. He stared a moment, seemed to hesitate; then, roughly summoning the girl to follow him, strode off through the wood. The moment they were out of sight I sat down again to ponder. Was it true, then, that these peasants had met Carinne--that they had helped her to a disguise--for what purpose? She must have been in the woods whilst I was there--accursed destiny that kept us apart! At least I must return to them at once and seek her. I broke into a queer embarrassed fit of laughter. What self-ordained mission was this? What was my interest in the girl, or how would she not resent, perhaps, the insolence of my interference? She had no claim upon my protection or I upon her favour. Very well and very well--but I was going to seek her, nevertheless. Such queer little threads of irresponsible adventure pulled me in these days. But, at first for my hunger. It was a great voice in an empty house. It would not be refused or put off with a feast of sentiment. Eat I must, if it was only of a hunk of sour pease-bread. Suddenly I thought of that bestial apparition at the wood-skirt. There had been a liquid “yong” in its snarl, as if it could not forbear the action of gluttonous jaws even while they were setting at an intruder. Perhaps the remains of a goat----!