I said no more, for he knew what I meant, and his brown cheek paled. As for me, for that moment I was innocent, I had conquered the past, and for once the dread breath that stirred the fires of evil within me lost its malign power. The whispering presence was there, ready as ever, but I was strong then. Would that that strength had continued! Ah! God in Heaven! Why dost Thou not stoop a little lower to help Thy creatures? And now I put aside the fiend with a curse, and swore again and again that I would die with Marcilly if need be, and we clasped hands once more on my oath, as we rode through the twilight of the woods of Russy, through the red sunset that lit up the old and gnarled trunks, and bronzed the tracery of branches overhead; a strange glow, that flushed the snow beneath us, that ran on the crests of the trees in a line of flame, and, falling on the gray of the distant woodlands, lit them with its glory, to sink at last in a trembling veil of empurpled shadows. What thoughts stirred Marcilly I know not; but as I rode behind him, I was once more fighting with myself. I saw with horror that the past was still awake within me, and there was a black foreboding in my soul of evil to come. Again I clutched at the strength above me, again bent my head in silent prayer. I swore to myself that I would put to flight the hideous phantom that dogged me, and once more there came to me that momentary strength, that feeble power, that faints so weakly at the first stealthy footfall of temptation. Were other men like me, I wondered, or was I accursed beyond my fellows, one marked with the Mark of the Beast? Good would it have been if I had taken Jean’s offer, and turned rein to Blois. The bitter days that were to come had then perchance never been; but my word was passed, and I would not draw back for dread of my life. It would be said that Gaspard de Vibrac had feared to die with his friend, that he had fled like a frighted roe at the first rustle of the leaves. It would be no longer the Fever of St. Vallière, but the Sweat of Vibrac, that would brand a poltroon with infamy. No! It could not be! And so, against myself, I drifted with the tide, into that yawning abyss from which there is no return. I had once put the past to sleep as I thought. Fool that I was! The past never sleeps. The madness had come on me again, and again I had crushed it, as I imagined, in that lonely struggle with myself which he, who was a priest of his people, had mocked at and gibed. And was this horror to envelop me again? God forbid! No! A thousand times no! I would play this last game to the end of my sword, and then--farewell to France.