Satisfied with this mental explanation of past events, St. Genis had ridden on in the darkness, his spirits kept up with hopes and thoughts of a glaring counter revenge. But his limbs were still stiff and bruised from the cramped position in which he had lain for so long, and presently, when the cold drizzle began to penetrate to his bones, his enthusiasm and confidence dwindled. The village seemed to recede further and further into the distance. He thought when he had ridden through it earlier in the evening that it was not very far from the scene of the attack--a dozen kilomètres perhaps--now it seemed more like thirty; he thought too that it was a village of some considerable size--five hundred souls or perhaps more--he had noticed as he rode through it a well-illuminated, one-storied house, and the words "Débit de vins" and "Chambres pour voyageurs" painted in bold characters above the front door. But now he had ridden on and on along the dark road for what seemed endless hours--unconscious of time save that it was dragging on leaden-footed and wearisome . . . and still no light on ahead to betray the presence of human habitations, no distant church bells to mark the progress of the night. At last, in desperation, Maurice de St. Genis had thought of wrapping himself in his cloak and getting what rest he could by the roadside, for he was getting very tired and saddle-sore, when on his left he perceived in the far distance, glimmering through the mist, two small lights like bright eyes shining in the darkness. What kind of a way led up to those welcome lights, Maurice had, of course, no idea; but they proclaimed at any rate the presence of human beings, of a house, of the warmth of fire; and without hesitation the young man turned his horse's head at right angles from the road. He had crossed a couple of ploughed fields and an intervening ditch, when in the distance to his right and behind him he heard the sound of horses at a brisk trot, going in the direction of Lyons. Maurice drew rein for a moment and listened until the sound came nearer. There must have been at least a score of mounted men--a military patrol sent out by M. le Comte d'Artois, no doubt, and now on its way back to Lyons. Just for a second or two the young man had thoughts of joining up with the party and asking their help or their escort: he even gave a vigorous shout which, however, was lost in the clang and clatter of horses' hoofs and of the accompanying jingle of metal. He turned his horse back the way he had come; but before he had recrossed one of the ploughed fields, the troop of mounted men--whatever they were--had passed by, and Maurice was left once more in solitude, shouting and calling in vain.