"'Tis half a league, down by the river," answered the old officer: "but stay--we can help the lady. Have out the hand litter on which they brought Jules de Sourdis from Dreux. Get out a party of bearers, Jacques. We will soon manage that for you, young gentleman; and a crown-piece will make the men go willingly. They will serve for guides, too; for in this dark night you would never find it. But, in the meantime, she had better dismount, and rest upon this bench. You seem sadly weary, lady: have you come far?" "Many leagues," replied Rose, as De Montigni sprang to the ground by her side to lift her from her horse. "I thank you much for your kindness, Sir," she continued, still addressing the old officer. "I do not think I could ride another hour to save life itself." Seated upon a bench by the side of the barricade, which had been opened to give her admission, with the light of a large watch-fire, and two resin torches casting a flickering glare over the figures of the soldiery as they came and went, wearied, exhausted, faint, and sick at heart, Rose d'Albret remained for several minutes with her fair head bent down, and her hand dropping as if powerless by her side. At length, however, a light seemed to come in her dark eyes, a warm and well-pleased smile crossed her lip, and she raised her fair face towards De Montigni, who stood beside her, with a look of renewed hope and satisfaction which he did not comprehend. The reader too may ask what it was that seemed so suddenly to revive her? what it was that called up that expression of pleasure and relief? It was not that she saw any friendly form. It was not that she heard any well-known voice. The cause was in no external things, but in her own mind. As she sat there, she had felt deeply and bitterly all that was painful in her situation, with lassitude of limb and sickening heart, fears, anxieties, and gloomy anticipations, which every sight, and sound, and circumstance, tended but to increase. Her thoughts and her sensations had been full of all that is sad and depressing, when suddenly, she had asked herself, if she could recall the last eight-and-forty hours, return to the mansion of her guardian, lay her head on the pillow of luxury and ease, remove afar peril, and difficulty, and terror, and weariness, become the promised wife of Nicholas de Chazeul, and give up Louis de Montigni for ever, would she do it? Her heart answered the question in a moment--no! Whatever she might suffer, was light in comparison. All that she had undergone, all that she endured, lost half its weight when she remembered that she was free--that she was with him she loved; and looking up, as I have said, in his face with a heart lightened and grateful, she felt that to share poverty, sorrow, flight, exile, care, with him, would still have joy enough to compensate for all.