re were many dangers, many
possibilities.

One dawn--they had ridden through the greater part of the night--a
climb which the horses took at walking pace brought them to the top of a
down. The world seemed stretched out before them in the light of the new
day.

"That way lies Bordeaux," said Sabatier, reining in his horse, and
pointing to the left. "Below us is the mouth of the Gironde, yonder the
open sea."

"Our journey is nearly at an end, then," said Jeanne.

"I trust so. A day or two's delay, perhaps; I cannot tell."

Toward evening they were lodged at an inn close to the shore, a deserted
spot where they were unlikely to be disturbed.

"After dark, Monsieur Barrington, I propose to leave you, and take your
man with me," said Sabatier. "I must get into communication with the
vessel that should be lying farther up the river. Your man will be able
to help me to explain, and guarantee my statement. You are not likely to
be disturbed here, but should any one come, say boldly that you are
watching for two refugees who are expected here hoping to be taken off
by a boat. Order them to leave you to fulfill your duties. Here are
papers which prove you to be Citizen Roche. Watch for the boat, and be
ready."

"Shall we not see you again?"

"No."

"Then, thank you, Citizen Sabatier, for what you have done," said
Barrington. "We owe you much and have nothing but words to pay the
debt."

"Monsieur, I told you once I had a liking for you; it was true."

"Is there no more danger?" said Jeanne.

"None, I think, mademoiselle. It is most improbable that your escape has
been discovered. Citizen Latour is powerful in Paris and in the
Convention. You have been under his care from the first. I am but the
lieutenant of a great man of whom the world will hear much in the days
to come. As he rises to greater heights, so may I."

"Will you carry back a message to him?" said Barrington. "Say that with
full hearts we thank him for all he has done for us."

"And tell him," said Jeanne, "tell him from me that there is one woman
in the world who will always pray for him."

Prayer and Jacques Sabatier had little in common; prayer was a thing to
laugh at, so much at least had the Revolution done for France and old
superstitions; but he did not laugh now. "He shall have the message," he
said, holding Jeanne's hand for a moment, and then suddenly bending down
and touching it with his lips. "He shall certainly have both your
messa