On the box beside the coachman was seated the nurse, her fat good-humoured face shaded by a large straw hat and a blue veil, though the sun had now sunk low, and only a few slanting rays reached the deep glen. His first thought was to spring up, and fly before them. But even if he could have got in advance of them here on this steep road, once in the plain they would speedily overtake him; so he had no chance of escaping. He stealthily rose and approached the door of the hut. "They have not yet seen me," he murmured; "they will drive past, and then this last pain will have been overcome; but why could they not have spared me this?" He entered the shed half ashamed of slinking away, and hiding like an outlaw. Through all those days of inward strife he had never felt so thoroughly wretched and unhappy as he did at that moment. Now when his last strength was exhausted, he had to witness the triumphant progress of one to whom he bitterly grudged the prize that was denied him. Cautiously he pressed against the wooden partition of the hut he could not refrain from looking through the small aperture which stood in lieu of a window, and once more gaze on those dear faces. They were now so close to him that he could examine the inside of the carriage. On the further side lay the child asleep, wrapped up in blankets, and cloaks. Lucille sat beside her, and held her hand, but her eyes searchingly scanned the road. Where was her young protector? "He will follow on foot," thought Everhard. "Thank heaven they have passed; now all is over!" Suddenly the carriage stopped. The coachman jumped off his seat, and opened the door. Lucille hastily descended and walked towards the hut. A few moments later and she stood with a bright flush on her cheek before the bewildered young man. "You see that all your resistance is vain my dear friend," she said in a trembling voice. "You wished to escape, but we follow you; we discover your hiding-place, and now hold you fast in spite of your resistance. We cannot do without you, you must...." "For heaven's sake," he cried, greatly agitated, "what has happened. Has the child had another attack?" "Our child sleeps," said the charming woman, and her voice sank low; "but still we want you my dear friend. This time ... this time, it is the mother who entrusts her life to you." "Lucille!" he exclaimed, well-nigh distracted, and seizing the hand which she offered him, drew her into the hut. "Can I?--may I hope?--Will you indeed ..."