And meanwhile, seated on a fallen tree about half a mile away, his horse grazing beside him, Gilbert also was occupied about a letter to Lucienne. But there was in his mind no conflict over the question of sending it—what detained him was its contents. As he sat there, pencil in hand, there ran through him a thrilling desire, not indeed to accuse, but to beg for some explanation, for the recital of some condoning circumstance. Stronger motives stifled it. The events of the last few days had transmuted his love for Lucienne into a passion intensely protective, half lover-like, half paternal. He could not bear for her to have so far to humiliate herself as to acknowledge that her heart had strayed from him. Moreover, how short a way had it strayed! He took out and re-read the little singed letter. “I cannot bear it! Come to me!” The cry, forlorn and despairing, seemed to flutter across the miles which separated her from him, and to nestle, faint as a whisper, in his heart. He put the letter back, and a consuming rage lit his face. Yes, it was so; she _had_ appealed for protection against Louis—Louis, the traditional _homme à bonnes fortunes_, who had amused himself with her, no doubt, for a month or two, and passed on, regardless of the ruin he had caused. By God! it should be no one’s ruin but his own! Again the image of the copse smiled at Gilbert, and this time with preciser details. It was sunrise, and the Vicomte, in his reddening shirt, the sword fallen from his hand, lay writhing on the woodland grass. . . . As he came in sight of the clump of firs Gilbert perceived his cousin lying under a tree with a saddle for a pillow, and a cloak spread carefully over him. Near him sat the owner of both. “What an excellent opportunity!” the rider reflected with a sneer. Château-Foix slept little that night. Towards morning he sank into a deep slumber, from which he woke with a start to find Trenchard saddling the horses. Louis, apparently himself again, was assisting him as well as he could. Château-Foix remembered that they had arranged overnight for an early start and separation, since their ways no longer lay together—and it was already six o’clock. “Why did you not wake me before?” he asked. “It seemed a pity,” answered Louis cheerfully, pulling at a strap. “Conceive, also, the virtue I feel at being up before you. Can I help you with that girth, Mr Trenchard?” “Thanks, I have finished,” said the Englishman. “What is our next move to be?” “Breakfast,” responded Louis promptly. “Don’t I gather that Gilbert went foraging last night? We used to think an al fresco meal the height of bliss when we were boys.”