ap, or a ring of
metal, the two forced the desperado to descend.

La Tribe followed hastily. Tignonville was the last to go. In the act
of disappearing he raised his lanthorn for a last glimpse of the
Countess. To his astonishment the passage was empty; she was gone. Hard
by him a door stood an inch or two ajar, and he guessed that it was hers,
and swore under his breath, hating her at that moment. But he did not
guess how nicely she had calculated her strength; how nearly exhaustion
had overcome her; or that, even while he paused--a fatal pause had he
known it--eyeing the dark opening of the door, she lay as one dead, on
the bed within. She had fallen in a swoon, from which she did not
recover until the sun had risen, and marched across one quarter of the
heavens.

Nor did he see another thing, or he might have hastened his steps. Before
the yellow light of his lanthorn faded from the ceiling of the passage,
the door of the room farthest from the trap slid open. A man, whose
eyes, until darkness swallowed him, shone strangely in a face
extraordinarily softened, came out on tip-toe. This man stood awhile,
listening. At length, hearing those below utter a cry of dismay, he
awoke to sudden activity. He opened with a turn of the key the door
which stood at his elbow, the door which led to the other part of the
house. He vanished through it. A second later a sharp whistle pierced
the darkness of the courtyard, and brought a dozen sleepers to their
senses and their feet. A moment, and the courtyard hummed with voices,
above which one voice rang clear and insistent. With a startled cry the
inn awoke.

CHAPTER XXV. THE COMPANY OF THE BLEEDING HEART.

"But why," Madame St. Lo asked, sticking her arms akimbo, "why stay in
this forsaken place a day and a night, when six hours in the saddle would
set us in Angers?"

"Because," Tavannes replied coldly--he and his cousin were walking before
the gateway of the inn--"the Countess is not well, and will be the
better, I think, for staying a day."

"She slept soundly enough! I'll answer for that!"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"She never raised her head this morning, though my women were shrieking
'Murder!' next door, and--Name of Heaven!" Madame resumed, after breaking
off abruptly, and shading her eyes with her hand, "what comes here? Is
it a funeral? Or a pilgrimage? If all the priests about here are as
black, no wonder M. Rabelais fell out with th