And so we went on in silence through the gray morning, and keeping Chartreuse du Liget to our right, we at length saw the mouldering old church of Genille, built in the eleventh century, and knew then that the Indroye was at hand, and the tortuous passage of the forest coming to an end. We crossed the Indroye by the bridge below Genille, and in a mile or so had entered the Champeigne, the chain of barren clay hillocks that separates the valley of the Cher from that of the Indre. “There is the Etang de la Gauvrie,” exclaimed Marcilly, rousing himself, and pointing to a blue splash below us; “that little stream trickling from it falls into the Cher at Chenonceaux. It is full of fat waterfowl.” “Was it not in the reeds on the banks that Coqueville hid for two days after Amboise?” “Yes, and but escaped by a hair. St. Gris! But this is a stiff descent!” We were on the top of a table-land as we spoke, and the descent wound steeply down to the lake, and it was near the end of this that a slight misfortune befell us. I was riding a little behind, and Marcilly turned in his saddle to say something. At this moment his horse stumbled and fell, bringing his rider down with him. He was on his feet in a moment, however, and was examining the horse’s hoof, as I came alongside and anxiously asked: “Are you hurt?” “No, Gaspard; but the very devil of ill-luck dogs us. The horse is lame.” “It is a good omen, though, that you have escaped.” “True enough! But the delay.” “It cannot be helped, Fortunately Chenonceaux is at hand. Take Badehorn’s horse, and let us hasten on. We will get another beast there.”