Without farther debate, De Montigni led the way on upon the road they were travelling, anxious, if possible, to reach Aunet that night. But mortal man is destined to meet with impediments in whatever course he may pursue, and many were those which delayed the young nobleman in his progress. The roads were heavy, his horse, and the horses of his followers, wearied by marching during several preceding days; and it was found necessary to halt for an hour at Nogent, in order to refresh them. It was a beautiful evening in the spring, however, when they once more resumed their way; and the interval of their halt was not ill employed by De Montigni, in writing a letter to the King, expressing his gratitude for the monarch's condescension and kindness, informing him of the motives which led him to Marzay, and promising to rejoin him, accompanied by all the force he could muster, with as little delay as possible. This epistle he placed in the hands of the trumpeter, who was to quit them when they turned towards Annet; but, in the meantime, the good man rode on by the young gentleman's side, entertaining him, or at least striving to do so, by his quaint observations on all the circumstances of the time. Thus proceeding, they had advanced to a spot three or four miles from Nogent, where they paused to consider of their further course on the brow of a little eminence, from which two cross roads were seen branching to the right and left. Although, as the servant had stated, they had found the whole country rapidly resuming its loyalty, as a consequence of the King's success, yet they had learned at Nogent, that the town of Dreux still held out stiffly for the League; and that to attempt the passage under its walls, might be dangerous. The hill, on which they stood, commanded a wide view over the undulating plain below; and clothing the side of the descent, was a thick low wood already beginning to grow red with the first promise of the spring. About a mile in advance, rose the tower of an old château, even then partially decayed, and of which nothing is now to be found, but one ruined wall rising on the top of a tree-covered mound, which the reader, if he ever travels from Versailles to Dreux, towards the hour of sunset, may see on his left hand, with the light streaming in a long bright ray through the solitary window which time has spared. When I saw it, all the building and the wood below were in deep shadow, except where that solitary beam fell, lighting up one particular track, like some sweet memory in the shady expanse of past-by years.