“We dragged him out, screaming with terror, begging for mercy, offering to divulge I know not what secrets, and hanged him with the rope which had been prepared for you. It was a pretty vengeance--even you could not desire a better.” “No,” I murmured. “No.” His face softened into a smile. “It has a resemblance to a certain Bible story, hasn’t it?” he asked. “I did not then know the full tale of Goujon’s iniquities, or I might have chosen a different death for him. It was Mademoiselle de Chambray who told me of the assault upon the château and the death of my dear friend, de Favras. Permit me to say that in that affair also, M. de Tavernay, you proved yourself a gallant man.” “Thank you, monsieur,” I answered. “I but did what any gentleman would do. You found Mademoiselle de Chambray, then?” I tried to ask it carelessly, but I fear my burning face betrayed me. At any rate, he smiled again as he looked at me. “Yes,” he said, “we found her lying senseless on the floor of Goujon’s tent. At first we thought her dead, but she soon opened her eyes. Can you guess what her first word was? But perhaps I ought not to tell you!” “Tell me,” I murmured, striving to restrain the leaping of my heart. “Well, you deserve some reward. Her first word was ‘Tavernay!’” “Yes,” I said, my eyes suddenly misty; “she had just seen me dragged away to be hanged.” “And when we told her what had befallen you she ran to where you lay----” “But her ankle,” I broke in. “Did you know----” “Yes, but she had forgotten it. She ran to where you lay; she washed and dressed your wound; she had you borne hither on a litter; and she remained beside you until yesterday--until, in a word, it was certain that you would recover.” “Then she has gone?” I asked. “She has gone?” and my heart seemed to stop in my bosom. “Yes, she has gone.” “But her ankle?” I protested. “Oh, how she must have suffered!” “She did not suffer at all,” said Marigny. “When she at last had time to remember her injury she found that it no longer existed. She attributed its cure to you.” I lay a moment silent, striving to appear composed. She had gone--she had been brave enough to go; she had sought to spare me the agony of that farewell which must in any event be spoken. She had been wise perhaps. She knew my weakness; but I felt that I would give my whole life to see her again, to hold her hand, to look into her eyes, to hear her say once more, “I love you!” “She left no word for me?” I asked at last. “She left a note; but I am not to give it to you until you are ready to set out for Poitiers.” “For Poitiers?” I repeated, trembling. “Did she herself name Poitiers?” “Most assuredly. And why do you grow so pale, my friend? Is it not near Poitiers that her home is?” “Yes, monsieur,” I groaned; “but my journey ends two leagues this side of Chambray. Those two leagues I shall never cover.”