Bourbon then returned to the hostel, and, sitting down at a table apart from the others, a modest repast was set before him by the old dame. Impatient to be gone, as soon as he had despatched his breakfast the Constable went forth again, and found that the horses were in readiness. By this time the old host had learned who was his guest, and professed as much devotion for him as his son had done. “I only wish I could attend your highness in person,” said the old man. “But take my son with you--take my horses--and may Heaven guard you on your way!” “I shall not forget your zeal, my good friend,” replied Bourbon, much moved; “and I trust I shall one day be able to requite you.” During breakfast, it had been arranged that the party should now separate. D'Herment and his sister proposed to return to their château, while the Constable and Pom-perant resolved to make the best of their way to Vienne. Hasty adieux were exchanged at the door of the little hostelry. “Farewell, prince!” said Marcelline to Bourbon. “May you re-enter France at the head of an army! It will give me new life when I hear you have crossed the frontier.” “Have no fear for me,” rejoined Bourbon. “Rest assured that I shall baffle my enemies. But I trust you may not suffer for your zeal in my behalf.” “If the king should imprison me and my brother, your highness must come and deliver us,” she replied. “That I engage to do,” replied Bourbon. The parting between Pomperant and Marcelline was brief, but it was evident that the former felt it deeply. The young seigneur had already become passionately enamoured of the fair damsel who had saved his life. “Farewell, Marcelline,” he said. “We shall meet again.” “I trust so,” she replied. Bourbon did not attempt to mount till Pomperant was in the saddle, but as soon as his supposed master had ridden off, he followed with Hugues. Often and often did Pomperant turn to gaze at Marcelline, till her figure was lost in the distance. XIV. THE MILL AT SAINT-SIMPHORIEN. |Compelled to avoid the public roads, the fugitives, on reaching the valley, traversed an extensive marshy plain, which would have been impassable without a guide, forded the Loire about half a league above Montrond, and after a toilsome journey through a wild and mountainous district, drew near Saint-Simphorien about an hour before midnight. As they could not put up at an auberge, Hugues proposed that they should seek a lodging at a mill which he pointed out on an eminence a short distance from the road. “I think Maître Benoit, the miller, will take us in,” he said. “He is kind-hearted and hospitable, and his daughter Madelon is the prettiest girl in Saint-Simphorien, and as good as she is pretty.” “You know her?” said Bourbon. “I persuade myself I do,” replied Hugues, “I have given my heart to her keeping, and hope one day to make her my wife--that is, if we can obtain Benoit's consent to the marriage.”