“We shall distance ’em yet, sir,” cried the viscount, casting a glance behind him, but even as he spoke, his horse began to totter and breathe heavily. My friend’s face grew pale, but he said nought to me, only cheering the beast with his voice. But I, remembering the bullet that had struck it beside the quag, saw that the gallop across the plain had pressed it too hard, and that it must soon fail, and at the same time there come into my mind a thought that did set my heart a-beating quickly. So strongly did it seize upon me, that I saw at once it must be obeyed, and yet (I am almost ashamed to write it) I felt myself hang back from following it. Sure you would think that this life of mine, that was of so little value even to myself, and still less to others, would be resigned without a pang; but ’twas not so, and in that moment I did learn the foolishness of all those idle vapourings of mine touching my blighted existence, and the ease and carelessness wherewith I would depart from it. For I found myself cling even to that precarious hope on’t which now remained, and ’twas with a prodigious effort that I made up my mind to do the thing that now presented itself to me, and so make the only amends in my power for my former presumption towards Madam Heliodora, and for the evil thoughts I had cherished against her servant. Now while these thoughts was yet in my mind, the viscount’s beast was becoming more and more feeble, so as I saw it could not long keep on its feet, and even as we were about mounting a slight ascent, it reared up and fell dead beneath him. And upon this I did dismount, as though to help him to arise from the ground. “Come, sir,” says I, pulling him to his feet, for he was fallen partly under the beast, though mercifully not much hurt, “mount my horse. We han’t no time to lose.” “Will he carry double?” says he, looking round as though dazed by his fall, but obeying me. “’Tis but a chance, but we may essay it.” I helped him into the saddle, and would fain have started the horse with a blow, but he suspected my design, and turned round. “Why don’t you mount, sir?” says he. “The beast can’t carry both of us,” says I, starting the horse and running by his side, as though accompanying him, “and your life is of more value than mine.” “Sir,” he cried, very angry, and striving to stop the horse, “have you forgot that I am a gentleman, and I hope, a Christian, and do you look for me to leave you to perish?” “Sir,” says I, “I owe a great obligation to Mademoiselle de Tourvel, and do desire to acquit myself on’t. And moreover, you have her ladyship to consider, to whom you owe love and protection for the rest of your life, and I have no one that need care whether I live or die. I have often been weary of my life, and I am well pleased for’t to end in such a manner as this.”