"To the château de Souday." "The château de Souday!" "Yes; you know it very well, with its pointed towers roofed with slate, on the left of the road opposite to the forest of Machecoul." "The wolves' castle?" "Yes, the wolves' castle, if you choose to call it so." "Is that where we are to stay?" "Yes." "Have you sufficiently reflected, Michel?" "Yes, yes; I will answer for everything." The baron waited to say no more, but set off instantly for the castle, with that velocity of which he had given such unmistakable proof on the night when he went to fetch the doctor to the dying Tinguy. "Well," asked Petit-Pierre, "what shall we do?" "There is no choice now but to follow him." "To the wolves' castle?" "Yes, to the wolves' castle." "So be it; but to enliven the way," said the little peasant, "will you be good enough to tell me, my dear Rameau-d'or, who the wolves are?" [Illustration: Castle Souday.] "I will tell you what I have heard of them." "I can't expect more." Resting his hand on the pommel of the saddle, the Comte de Bonneville related to Petit-Pierre the sort of legend attaching, throughout the department of the Lower Loire, to the daughters of the Marquis de Souday. But presently, stopping short in his tale, he announced to his companion that they had reached their destination. Petit-Pierre, convinced that he was about to see beings analogous to the witches in "Macbeth," was calling up all his courage to enter the dreaded castle, when, at a turn of the road, he saw before him an open gate, and before the gate two white figures, who seemed to be waiting there, lighted by a torch carried behind them by a man of rugged features and rustic clothes. Mary and Bertha--for it was they--informed by Baron Michel, had come to meet their uninvited guests. Petit-Pierre eyed them curiously. He saw two charming young girls,--one fair, with blue eyes and an almost angelic face; the other, with black hair and eyes, a proud and resolute bearing, a frank and loyal countenance. Both were smiling. Rameau-d'or's young companion slid from his horse, and the two advanced together toward the ladies. "My friend Baron Michel encouraged me to hope, mesdemoiselles, that your father, the Marquis de Souday, would grant us hospitality," said the Comte de Bonneville, bowing to the two girls. "My father is absent, monsieur," replied Bertha. "He will regret having lost this occasion to exercise a virtue which in these days we cannot often practise." "I do not know if Michel told you, mademoiselle, that this hospitality may possibly involve some danger. My young companion and I are almost proscribed persons. Persecution may be the cost of your granting us an asylum."