to marry her to another. Ponder the possibilities of
tragedy in such a situation. Half this world's upheavals have had their
source in less. Yet you, Rabecque, would have married!"

Necessity at last turned his discourse to other matters.

"Tell me, now," said he abruptly, in a different tone, "is there
hereabouts a ford?"

"There is a bridge up yonder, monsieur," returned the servant, thankful
to have the conversation changed.

They rode towards it in silence, Garnache's eyes set now upon the grey
pile that crowned the hillock, a half-mile away, on the opposite bank of
the stream. They crossed the bridge and rode up the gently rising, bare,
and rugged ground towards Condillac. The place wore an entirely peaceful
air, strong and massive though it appeared. It was encircled by a ditch,
but the drawbridge was down, and the rust on its chains argued that long
had it been so.

None coming to challenge them, the pair rode across the planks, and
the dull thud of their hooves started into activity some one in the
gatehouse.

A fellow rudely clad--a hybrid between man-at-arms and lackey--lounged
on a musket to confront them in the gateway. Monsieur de Garnache
announced his name, adding that he came to crave an audience of Madame
la Marquise, and the man stood aside to admit him. Thus he and Rabecque
rode forward into the roughly paved courtyard.

From several doorways other men emerged, some of martial bearing,
showing that the place was garrisoned to some extent. Garnache took
little heed of them. He flung his reins to the man whom he had first
addressed--the fellow had kept pace beside him--and leapt nimbly to the
ground, bidding Rabecque await him there.

The soldier lackey resigned the reins to Rabecque, and requested
Monsieur de Garnache to follow him. He led the way through a door on
the left, down a passage and across an anteroom, and ushered the visitor
finally into a spacious, gloomy hall, panelled in black oak and lighted
as much by the piled-up fire that flared on the noble hearth as by the
grey daylight that filtered through the tall mullioned windows.

As they entered, a liver-coloured hound that lay stretched before the
fire growled lazily, and showed the whites of his eyes. Paying little
attention to the dog, Garnache looked about him. The apartment was
handsome beyond praise, in a sombre, noble fashion. It was hung
with pictures of departed Condillacs--some of them rudely wrought
enough--with trophi