"With all my heart," cried Rose d'Albret; "this slow travelling in the darkness is more fatiguing far than a quick pace;" and putting their horses into a brisk canter, they hurried through Montlandon, before any of the cottage windows showed signs of waking life. When they reached Champrond, however, a good many of the villagers were standing out under the shelter of their doors. The greater part, indeed, seemed more terrified at the sight of the body of horsemen, than desirous of impeding their progress, and retreated into their houses as soon as the white scarfs appeared. But one stout blacksmith stood before his forge, and shouted as they passed, "What news from the armies?" "The King has taken Dreux," replied one of the attendants, in the same loud tone, "and is marching upon Chartres." "Curses on the Maheutre!" cried the blacksmith, and retired grumbling into his dwelling. No opposition, however, was offered to their passage; and at a quick pace they hurried on; but the anxious eye of De Montigni saw that Rose's cheek was very pale, her fair head bent down, and the hand which held her bridle resting on the pommel of the saddle, as if she could hardly manage her reins. "Ah, dearest girl," he said, "let us stop at the first cottage. You are faint,--you are ill." "No, no," she answered; "I can go on, Louis. I am somewhat tired, but I can go on," and in about five minutes more their guide exclaimed, "There is the Eure! We shall soon be safe!" Such words of encouragement revived the poor girl's strength for a few minutes longer, till a hamlet, containing some half dozen houses, appeared a little to the left, and De Montigni, without further question, turned his horse's head thither, sprang to the ground at the door of the first cottage, and, throwing his arm round his fair companion, lifted her from the saddle. Rose leaned upon his bosom, for she could not support herself; and, raising her in his arms, he carried her into the hut, where they found a peasant and his young wife taking their early meal. The good people of this place seemed to know little, or care little, of Royalists and Leaguers. They were of the best party, the party of human nature; and the young woman rose eagerly from the table, with expressions of kindly compassion, to assist poor Rose d'Albret, laid her upon her own bed, all dripping as she was, and insisted upon making her put on some of her own apparel, while she dried the lady's wet garments at the fire. Fatigue and exhaustion, however, were the greatest evils under which Rose was suffering; and De Montigni eagerly asked for wine, as her pale cheeks and bloodless lips showed him how faint she felt. "Here is cyder," said the peasant, "but that is poor stuff for such a lady; and wine we have none." "Run, Victor, run down to the priest's," cried his wife; "you will get wine there." "Or at Master Leger's," answered the cottager; "he has better wine than the priest."