Again I dashed onward at a gallop, my powerful horse splashing through the deep ground, or striding boldly across the heavy furrows; now breasting some steep and rugged ascent where the torn-up way gave passage to a swollen rivulet; now plunging down into some valley where the darkness seemed thicker and more impenetrable still. At last I could see, far down beneath me, the twinkling light of the village, and began to deliberate with myself at what point I should turn off leftwards. Each moment the path seemed to lead me in the direction of the light, while I felt that my road led straight onwards. I drew my rein to deliberate what course I should take, when directly in front of me I thought I could detect the clank of a sabre flapping against the flank of a horse. I lowered my head on a level with my horse's main, and could now distinctly hear the sound I suspected; and more still, the deep tones of a soldier's voice interrogating some one, who by the patois of his answer I guessed to be a peasant. “You are certain, then, we have not come wrong?” said the horseman. “Ah! I know the way too well for that,--travelling it daylight and dark since I was a boy. I was born in the village below. We shall soon reach the little wooden bridge, and then, taming to the left, beside Martin Guichard's--” “What care I for all that?” interrupted the other, roughly. “How far are we now from the château? Is it still a league off?” “_Parbleu!_ no, nor the half of it. When you rise the hill yonder, you 'll see a light,--they always have one burning in the tourelle there,--and that 's the château.” “Thank Heaven for that!” muttered I. “And now only let me pass them, and all is safe.”