He thought he was back in Bohemia, sleeping on the frozen ground, and that presently the dawn would break like a frosty lily, and he would look up to see a lady in a habit of Oriental gaudiness ride round a tall silver fir, in the topmost boughs of which the sun would sparkle among the snow crystals. But it was another light that broke across the peaceful, grateful darkness that surrounded Luc. He sat up shivering, to find himself in the close, worn interior of a public coach, the door of which was being held open by the guard, who carried a lantern that cast a strong yellow glow. The coach had stopped. Luc’s fellow-passenger was yawning and shaking himself. “Ah, Messieurs,” the guard was saying, “a thousand pardons--the light has gone out!” “Eh?” yawned the man in the frieze coat. “Well, I think we have both been asleep, have we not, Monsieur?” He smiled courteously at Luc. “It would seem so,” shuddered the Marquis. Beyond the stout figure of the guard, clumsy with heavy capes, he could see the misty lights of an inn, and a group of men standing in front of the yellow square of the door. “The lady?” he asked. “Has the lady got out here?” The fellow shook his head. “There was no passenger save you two from Aix, Monsieur. Some others join us at the next stage.” Luc glanced at his fellow-traveller, who was chafing his hands vigorously. “Did you not think that there was a lady in that corner?” he asked faintly. When he saw the look turned on him, he repented having spoken. “You have been dreaming, Monsieur,” was the brusque answer. “We have been alone in the coach since Aix.” Luc controlled himself. “Forgive me,” he said simply. “My sight is not very good, and there were so many shadows I thought I saw a lady in a dark mantle seated in that corner.” The little man laughed. “Mon Dieu, no, Monsieur.” He spoke pleasantly, being affected, almost unconsciously, by the sweetness and gentleness of the slight stooping gentleman who was so terribly marked by the smallpox and seemed to breathe with such an effort. The guard entered to relight the lantern, and the two travellers descended and stood in the strip of light outside the inn, where the coachman, some peasants, and two starved-looking people, who had been travelling outside, were drinking hot spiced wine with wolfish relish. Luc felt the night wind touch his face. He walked out of the radius of light, away from the sound of the talk, and stood facing the dark high road. _Can she, then, come back--has she, then, remembered? Did she mean to comfort me?_ He breathed strongly and drew himself erect. _Why should I fear sorrow and loss? Who am I that I should hope to be free of grief and regret? I have not offended the Being who put me here, and I fear nothing._ He stood motionless, for the wind was rising higher, and passed him with a sound like the sweep of a woman’s skirt. He thought to feel a touch, a breath, to hear a voice, a sigh.