"My horse's step and that of my sister Mary's horse. They are coming for me. Something must have happened." She listened again. "Mary has come herself." "How can you tell that?" asked the young man. "By the way the horses gallop. Let us walk faster, please." The sounds came nearer, and in less than five minutes a dark group showed in the distance. Soon it was seen to be two horses,--a woman riding one and leading the other. "I told you it was my sister," said Bertha. The young man had already recognized her, less by her person, scarcely distinguishable in the darkness, than by the beating of his heart. Mary, too, had recognized him, and this was plain from the gesture of amazement which escaped her. It was evident that she expected to find her sister alone or with Rosine,--certainly not with the young baron. Michel saw the impression his presence had produced, and he advanced. "Mademoiselle," he said to Mary, "I met your sister on her way to carry assistance to poor Tinguy, and in order that she might not be alone I have accompanied her." "You did perfectly right, monsieur," replied Mary. "You don't understand," said Bertha, laughing. "He thinks he must excuse me or excuse himself. Do forgive him for something; his mamma is going to scold him." Then leaning on Mary's saddle, and speaking close to her ear, "What is it, darling?" she asked. "The attempt at Marseille has failed." "I know that; and Madame has re-embarked." "That's a mistake." "A mistake?" "Yes. Madame declares that as she is in France she will stay." "Can it be true?" "Yes; and she is now on her way to La Vendée,--in fact, she may actually be here now." "How did you hear all this?" "Through a message received from her to-night at the château de Montaigu, just as the meeting was about to break up disheartened." "Gallant soul!" cried Bertha, enthusiastically. "Papa returned home at full gallop, and finding where you were, he told me to take the horses and fetch you." "Well, here I am!" said Bertha, putting her foot into the stirrup. "Are not you going to bid good-bye to your poor knight?" "Oh, yes," said Bertha, holding out her hand to the young man, who advanced to take it slowly and sadly. "Ah! Mademoiselle Bertha," he murmured, taking her hand, "I am very unhappy." "Why?" she asked. "Not to be, as you said just now, one of you." "What prevents it?" said Mary, holding out her hand to him. The young man darted on that hand and kissed it in a passion of love and gratitude. "Oh! yes, yes, yes," he murmured, so low that Mary alone could hear him; "for you, mademoiselle, and with you." Mary's hand was roughly torn from his grasp by a sudden movement of her horse. Bertha, in touching hers, had struck that of her sister on the flank. Horses and riders, starting at a gallop, were soon lost like shadows in the darkness. The young man stood motionless in the roadway. "Adieu!" cried Bertha. "Au revoir!" cried Mary.