But there was nothing; not a leaf stirred, not a branch crackled, though I knew they were around us, and I rode on, cursing the delay, for as the moment approached I was worked up to a fever heat. In effect it was not quite ten minutes before we saw the mouldering walls of St. Loup. The gates lay open, and we galloped through them, and along the deserted ride, the reckless Condé giving forth a loud “Halloo!” to announce our coming. As he did so, something made me turn and glance back over my shoulder. Under the arch of the avenue I could still see the gate, and at its entrance stood a single horseman, gazing after us. But now the ride bent sharply to the right, and I lost him to view as we took the turn and followed the curve that swept in a half-circle to the doors of the château. But brief and momentary as my glance was, I had recognized the figure. There could be no mistake. It was Achon himself. We drew rein at the entrance, and a man hurried up to hold our horses. It was Badehorn, and he bent forward and kissed the Prince’s hands ere he took the reins. And then I heard a glad cry, and Condé, springing from his horse, ran up the wide steps to meet a slight, gray-clad figure that fluttered toward him, with arms held out, and the love-light shining in her eyes. “Safe! Safe! Oh! thank God!” Her arms were round his neck, as she hung over him with tender, wifely words of love--but I cannot write of this. I did not dare to look, but with head held down and shaking hands, fumbled nervously with the straps of my nag’s girths. Now, too, all those who were there gathered around, and it seemed as if the steps were full of figures. There was a murmur and buzz of welcoming voices, as some one--it was Coqueville--put an arm through mine with a warm pressure, leading me on until I found myself near the Princess. She took my hand, that lay as cold as ice in her own warm palms, and faltered: “Oh, monsieur! God bless you!” With this all speech seemed to fail her, and she burst into an April shower of glad, happy tears. But I shivered and shrank back from the words of praise, and the kindly faces that crowded round me, and then I felt a light touch on the sleeve of my coat, and a slender figure was before me, pinning with trembling fingers a bunch of winter violets to my coat. It was Yvonne de Mailly, and the girl’s face was flushed and her sweet eyes were wet with tears. “Monsieur,” she said, “we women are proud of a brave man.” And then she stepped back amid the surrounding smiles, and I turned with a sob in my throat, for my eyes to fall on Marie, where she stood a little apart, gazing at me gravely, and as the sun lit the gold of her hair, and I caught the look on her face, my mind went back like a flash to the vision I had seen in Russy wood, and I stood there tongue-tied and staring, as without a word she turned aside from me.