But now galloping was no longer possible because of loose stones and greasy ruts. So sure as we pushed on beyond our cautious trot our beasts stumbled, nor did the track improve till we had passed Ingrande. Twice I broke out on Lesellè, once in tears and once lashing him with my tongue as if the fault was his. But he either kept silence and rode on doggedly, or answered, always submissively, that there was no better path, and that the going was faster beyond Chatellerault. But in Chatellerault there was again a check. The _Corne d'Abondance_ was asleep from garret to cellar, and ten precious minutes were wasted before Lesellé, having beaten the door in vain, at last roused life by flinging a stone through an open window. Then a man leaned out, cursing. But Lesellè cursed him back in two languages, and cried out for the horses that were to be ready in the King's name. But there had either been a blunder or treachery: the horses were ordered for the night following, and again he cursed us for thieves. "At your peril!" cried Lesellè. "If the King's business miscarries because of you, by God! you'll hang! You know the King's way." "To-morrow night," answered the fellow, "that was the order, and it is the King's way to be obeyed to the letter." In the end it was Lesellè's archer's dress that saved us, and thereafter there was no delay. But there had been a desperate waste of time, and as we galloped out of Chatellerault it seemed to me the east was grey. The road was now a steady rise, with the Clain on our left glimmering in and out of the hosts of trunks that stretched from Mirebeaud to the river's bank. The wind was growing with the dawn, but so buried were we in leafage we scarcely heard the rustle. From the right, not far off, came the short, gasping bark of a fox; that, with the _pa-lop, pa-lop, pa-lop_, of the hoofs on the hard, sound road, was the only life. So dark was it we dared not touch a bridle, but with a loose rein plied whip and spur in our race for a man's life. "Are we on time?" I cried to Lesellè, who led the way. "Please God!" he cried back across his shoulder, and stooping low to avoid the downward thrust of the branches, rode on. Please God! When a man says, Please God! he doubts. Little by little the strain of the gallop on the rising hill began to tell on the horses, and their speed slackened. The smooth, easy motion shortened to a lumpish gait, and at a very sharp rise they stopped, half stumbling. "How far to Poictiers?" "Five leagues, Mademoiselle." "And the hour?" All Lesellè's boyish ardour was gone. He rode like an old man, slouching in the saddle, his chin sunk on his breast. At my question I saw him raise his head and look at me, his face white against the overhung blackness of the night. "Mademoiselle, I have done my best." "The hour, Monsieur, if you please?" "Gone four, I think."