At that moment, feeling under my foot something different from leaves or earth, I stooped and found one of mademoiselle's gloves, which she had dropped, probably, on first entering the inn. Remaining in my kneeling posture and looking up at her sweet, sad face, I said: "Whatever may come in the future, mademoiselle, circumstance has made me your faithful chevalier for a day. Will you not give me some badge of service that I may wear forever in memory of that sweet, though sorrowful day?" "Keep what you have in your hand," she replied, in a low voice, and pointed to her glove. I rose, and fastened the glove on my hat, and said: "They shall find it on me when I am dead, mademoiselle." Then I turned to go in search of Pierre. "I shall go to my room now," she said, "and so, good-night, monsieur!" I turned, and made to take her hand that I might kiss it, but she drew it away, and then, standing on the threshold, she raised it as one does in bestowing a _benedicite_, and said: "God watch you through the night, monsieur!" "And you forever, mademoiselle!" said I, but she had gone. For a moment I stood looking up at her chamber window, thinking how it had come over me again, as in the days of my youth, the longing to be near one woman. Night was now coming on. In the deeper shades of the forest it was already dark, but the sky was clear, and soon the moon would rise. Musing as I went, I walked along the road that Pierre had first taken. The only sounds that I heard were the ceaseless chirps and whirrs of the insects of the bushes and trees. When I had gone some distance, I bethought me of my heedlessness in coming away from the inn without my sword. I had taken this off before sitting down to eat, and at my departure my mind had been so taken up with other matters that I had omitted to put it on. My dagger was with it at the inn. At first I thought of returning for these weapons, but I considered that I would not be away long, and that there was no likelihood of my requiring weapon in these solitudes. So I continued on my way towards a knoll whence I expected to get a good view of the road, and thus, should Pierre be returning on that road, spare myself the labor of plunging into the wood's depths and listening for the footsteps of his horse or of himself. I had walked several minutes in the increasing darkness, when there came to my ears, from the shades at the right, the sound of a human snore. Had the boy fatigued himself in trying to find the way, and fallen asleep without knowledge of his nearness to the inn? "Pierre!" I called. There was no answer. I called again. Again there was no reply, but the snoring ceased. A third time I called. My call was unheeded.