Fronsac pointed to a dark mass which lay just at the cliff-foot. “He is there,” he said. “He is far past escape. He was still bound to the rope when it broke. You fell upon him, which may explain your good fortune. But we thought you dead!” “The rope did not break,” I said, “it was cut. They blew down the door with a charge of powder.” “But you are quite sure you have no bones broken?” asked Fronsac anxiously. I stretched my arms and felt myself all over. “Quite sure,” I said at last. “Nothing worse than a few bruises. But let us look at him.” We brought him out from the shadow of the cliff, unbound his hands, and laid him on his back. Blood was oozing from nose and mouth, but his heart still fluttered faintly. “We must get him to M. le Comte,” I said, “before he dies. Come,” and I caught him by the shoulders. Fronsac took him by the legs, and we set off through the night, Mademoiselle following. The moon was just clear of the horizon and the night was warm and still. We had reached the ground just outside the wall of Marleon, and we left the town to the right, proceeding straight towards the hill where I had seen the camp. At the end of ten minutes I caught the gleam of the camp-fires. But they seemed a long way off, and more than once we were compelled to lay our heavy burden down and take a moment’s rest. At last a sentry stopped us. “We must see M. le Comte at once,” I said. “This is his daughter. You will see the need of haste.” He peered into our faces, his eyes large with astonishment. “I will take you to him, Monsieur,” he said, and set off through the camp. We had not far to go. At the end of a moment I saw M. le Comte’s standard floating above a tent before which blazed a great torch. At the tent door a man was sitting, his head on his hand, the image of despair. Mademoiselle saw him also, and, with a little cry, sprang to him and threw her arms about his neck. He looked up with a great start. “Valérie, is it you?” he cried. “Here, safe in my arms. God! what a miracle!” He strained her to him as she lay sobbing on his breast. Then he looked up and saw us standing there. “Fronsac!” he cried. “Marsan! Why, this is a deliverance! And who have you there?” he added, looking at our burden. “This is M. le Duc de Roquefort,” answered Fronsac. “Roquefort!” and M. le Comte was on his feet, the picture of bewilderment. He put his daughter gently from him, came to us, and bent over the unconscious man. “He is wounded?” he asked. “Bring him hither, then,” and he held back the curtain of the tent. “Lay him there,” he said, and we placed our burden on the couch. M. le Comte looked at us again--at his daughter--at Fronsac--at me--at Roquefort, lying there with bloody lips. “It is a dream,” he said. “It is not to be believed--that two men should break their way out of that castle yonder and bring Roquefort with them. It is a dream!” But Mademoiselle had her arms again about his neck.