ling beside him. He saw, or thought
he saw, the same woman clothed in black, whom he had pointed out to
Grandchamp, approach so near as to touch his horse's mane, pull his
cloak, and then run off with a jeering laugh; the sand of the road
seemed to him a river running beneath him, with opposing current, back
toward its source. This strange sight dazzled his worn eyes; he closed
them and fell asleep on his horse.

Presently, he felt himself stopped, but he was numbed with cold and
could not move. He saw peasants, lights, a house, a great room into
which they carried him, a wide bed, whose heavy curtains were closed by
Grandchamp; and he fell asleep again, stunned by the fever that whirred
in his ears.

Dreams that followed one another more rapidly than grains of sand before
the wind rushed through his brain; he could not catch them, and moved
restlessly on his bed. Urbain Grandier on the rack, his mother in tears,
his tutor armed, Bassompierre loaded with chains, passed before him,
making signs of farewell; at last, as he slept, he instinctively put his
hand to his head to stay the passing dream, which then seemed to unfold
itself before his eyes like pictures in shifting sands.

He saw a public square crowded with a foreign people, a northern people,
who uttered cries of joy, but they were savage cries; there was a line
of guards, ferocious soldiers--these were Frenchmen. "Come with me,"
said the soft voice of Marie de Gonzaga, who took his hand. "See, I wear
a diadem; here is thy throne, come with me." And she hurried him on, the
people still shouting. He went on, a long way. "Why are you sad, if you
are a queen?" he said, trembling. But she was pale, and smiled and spoke
not. She ascended, step after step, up to a throne, and seated herself.
"Mount!" said she, forcibly pulling his hand. But, at every movement,
the massive stairs crumbled beneath his feet, so that he could not
ascend. "Give thanks to love," she continued; and her hand, now more
powerful, raised him to the throne. The people still shouted. He bowed
low to kiss that helping hand, that adored hand; it was the hand of the
executioner!

"Oh, heavens!" exclaimed Cinq-Mars, as, heaving a deep sigh, he opened
his eyes. A flickering lamp lighted the ruinous chamber of the inn; he
again closed his eyes, for he had seen, seated on his bed, a woman,
a nun, young and beautiful! He thought he was still dreaming, but she
grasped his hand firmly. He opened his bur