rs, and what hope he has? And his last wishes?
And--for while there is life there is hope--would you not learn where the
key of his prison lies to-night? How much for the key to-night, Madame?"

Each question fell on her like the lash of a whip; but as one who has
been flogged into insensibility, she did not wince. That drove him on:
he felt a mad desire to hear her prayers, to force her lower, to bring
her to her knees. And he sought about for a keener taunt. Their
attendants were almost out of sight before them; the sun, declining
apace, was in their eyes.

"In two hours we shall be in Angers," he said. "Mon Dieu, Madame, it was
a pity, when you two were taking letters, you did not go a step farther.
You were surprised, or I doubt if I should be alive to-day!"

Then she did look up. She raised her head and met his gaze with such
wonder in her eyes, such reproach in her tear-stained face, that his
voice sank on the last word.

"You mean--that I would have murdered you?" she said. "I would have cut
off my hand first. What I did"--and now her voice was as firm as it was
low--"what I did, I did to save my people. And if it were to be done
again, I would do it again!"

"You dare to tell me that to my face?" he cried, hiding feelings which
almost choked him. "You would do it again, would you? Mon Dieu, Madame,
you need to be taught a lesson!"

And by chance, meaning only to make the horses move on again, he raised
his whip. She thought that he was going to strike her, and she flinched
at last. The whip fell smartly on her horse's quarters, and it sprang
forward. Count Hannibal swore between his teeth.

He had turned pale, she red as fire. "Get on! Get on!" he cried
harshly. "We are falling behind!" And riding at her heels, flipping her
horse now and then, he forced her to trot on until they overtook the
servants.

CHAPTER XXVII. THE BLACK TOWN.

It was late evening when, riding wearily on jaded horses, they came to
the outskirts of Angers, and saw before them the term of their journey.
The glow of sunset had faded, but the sky was still warm with the last
hues of day; and against its opal light the huge mass of the Angevin
castle, which even in sunshine rises dark and forbidding above the
Mayenne, stood up black and sharply defined. Below it, on both banks of
the river, the towers and spires of the city soared up from a sombre
huddle of ridge-roofs, broken here by a round-headed gatewa