Absurd little tragedy! Was it not Louis who, less than a month later, was descried by the Marquise galloping wildly round a frosty meadow on the very steed to which he owed his discomfiture? Was it not Lucienne who was shortly afterwards discovered in tears because Louis, scarcely convalescent, had teased her so horribly? And it was certainly he himself who, that same winter, settled a fierce dispute with the whilom invalid by the arbitrament of force in the shrubbery. . . . And, for the first time, the almost forgotten blow which had left him victor was a regret to him, for at the present moment it seemed an outrage. Château-Foix smiled at himself; smiled too, as, at the sudden withdrawal of the moonlight, he bent forward and put a light kiss on Louis’ forehead. * * * * * * It was about six o’clock when Gilbert awoke the next morning, but as he raised himself on his elbow and looked down at his cousin, his hopes of quitting their hiding-place that day received their death-blow. For Louis was moaning faintly, moving his head from side to side with restless regularity. The Marquis got to his knees and bent uneasily over him. It was plain that he was in a high fever, and there was nothing for Château-Foix to do but to resign himself to a day of waiting. The Vicomte’s condition scarcely showed a change through the whole of that long day. The Marquis sat by him, unable to do more than to keep him fairly quiet, and to force him once or twice to drink some milk which, with a loaf of bread, had mysteriously appeared in the shed below. He was becoming seriously alarmed as to his state when, about midday, the owner of the little farm suddenly paid her tenants a visit. She was a small, alert, black-eyed scold of forty-five or thereabouts, and as her rather formidable head appeared at the top of the ladder the Marquis became more fully conscious of the magnitude of his victory of the night before. But perhaps she had come to revoke her permission. He rose from his place and waited. “You may come and take this basket,” announced the woman in her harsh, penetrating voice. “I have brought you something to eat, and there is another pitcher of milk down below.” As she scrambled on to the loft floor Gilbert began to thank her, but she cut him short. “Là là, that is enough. Time enough to thank me when you get safely out of my loft, without setting the hay on fire or trampling it all flat.” Here her restless little eyes fell on the prostrate form of Louis. “How is the other? He is lazy? He takes his ease, hein?” She began to wade through the hay. “No,” returned the Marquis, following her, basket in hand. “I am afraid——”