We rode slowly at first, lagging behind the Paris post, and still slowly when we turned south. "Not too fast till the horses are warmed to their work," said Lesellè, and I, with a fevered, grudging impatience reined Mesrour back to a trot. But once across the Cher the pace quickened, and on every flat and down every slope, we tore at a gallop. The road was good, smooth, broad and hard, Louis and _corvée_ had seen to that. _Pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop_! A race for a man's life, said Monseigneur. _Pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop_! It was all that, and more than that for me--it was a race for a woman's soul. How could there be a God at all if this monstrous iniquity of Poictiers came to pass? _Pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop_! The intermingling beat of our horses' hoofs rang their rhythm in my head; _a race--for the life--of a man; a race--for the life--of a man; a race--for a wom--an's soul_; over and over again, till I almost screamed at the iteration. A swerve down the hill to the valley of the Indre broke into the beat. With a splash we plunged into the river, and walked our panting beasts up the further slope. "Do we keep our time, Monsieur Lesellè?" "We more than keep it, Mademoiselle. Accidents apart, there is only one thing to fear." "What is that?" "Wolves." "I am not afraid, Monsieur Lesellè." "I know it, Mademoiselle, nor do I mean fear for ourselves," and with a thrust of the spur we rode on; by reaped cornfields, _a race--for the life--of a man_; through broad pastures, waste lands and commonage, _pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop! a race--for a wom--an's soul_; under leafy arches, where the trees, grappling, met overhead and rasped their boughs in a rising wind. What a race it was, and how the blood drummed in the ears, how the courage rose as the night-wind blew cool in the face! _Pa-lop, pa-lop, pa_----Crash! Bay Zadok was down, and Lesellè lay in the ditch groaning. But before I could jump from the saddle he was on his feet again, stooping over the horse. A minute or two he fumbled at it in the dark, muttering to himself. "Hurt," he said curtly. "Mesrour must carry double to Sainte Maure. Mademoiselle, shift your foot from the stirrup an instant--yes, I have it now." In the gloom, I felt rather than saw him grip at Mesrour's gear. With a swing he was up behind me on the croup, but as he steadied himself he moaned. "Are you also hurt, Monsieur?" "It is nothing," he answered, grasping my belt, "nothing at all; ride on." God be thanked, it was not far, and at a trot we entered the straggle of dim grey huts that called itself Sainte Maure. Rounding a curve, a mellow glare flared from a doorstep. "Monseigneur's posting-house," said Lesellè, and slipped to the ground. "Within there! Horses, horses! In the King's name!" They were alert and waiting. A head, cowled like a priest's, peered round the jamb. "Two minutes, Monsieur, two minutes; there is no more than to tighten the girths."