ward for a mile or
something more, till you come to a small cabaret on the roadside, at the
end of which you 'll find a 'chemin de traverse,' a clay road, which
will lead you up the fields about half a league to a large pond where
they water the cattle; cross this, and continue till you see the lights
of a village to your left; the barking of the dogs will guide you if the
lights be out; don't enter the village, but go on till you meet an old
gateway covered with ivy,--enter there, and you are in the avenue of the
chateau. The high road is full five leagues about, but you 'll easily
find this way. There 's a mastiff there you should be on your guard
against,--though you must not fire on him either; they were going to
take my life once that I half drew a pistol from my holster against him,
and I heard one of the fellows say to another that monseigneur's dog was
well worth a bleu any day, whatever he meant by that."

Very few minutes sufficed to give my orders respecting the picket, and
I was in my saddle and ready for the road; and although my departure
excited no surprise among my men, coupled as it was with the orders I
had just given, I overheard the troop sergeant mutter to another as I
passed out, "Parbleu, I always suspected there was something wrong about
that old chateau yonder; come what weather it would, they'd never let
you take shelter within the walls of it."

The night was so dark that when I turned into the road I could not even
distinguish my horse's head; heavy drifts of rain, too, went sweeping
along, and the wind roared through the forest with a noise like the sea
in a storm.

I now put spurs to my horse, and the animal, fresh from long pampering,
sprang forward madly, and dashed onward. The very beating of the rain,
the adverse wind, seemed to chafe his spirits and excite his courage.
With head bent down, and hands firmly grasping the reins, I rode on,
till the faint glimmering of a light caught my eye at a distance; a few
miles brought me beside it. It was a little candle that burned in the
shrine above the image of the Virgin. Some pious but humble hand had
placed it there, regardless of the rain and storm; and there it was now
burning secure from the rude assaults of the harsh night, and throwing
its yellow light on the few cheap trinkets which village devotion had
consecrated to the beloved saint. As I looked at the little altar, I
thought of the perilous enterprise I was engaged in. I could hav