a time when I ought to have
used a man's authority, laughing down her protests, it had been when she
rode away alone toward the forest.

I turned my horse about, resolved to undo my error as far as I
might,--to go back and take the road she had taken, and not rest till I
knew she was safe in the convent.

My fears increased as I went. What the country gentleman had said about
robbers came back to my mind. I arrived at the junction of the roads,
and galloped to the woods. Once among the trees, I had to proceed
slowly, for the road dwindled to a mere path, so grown with grass as to
show how little it was ordinarily resorted to. But there were horseshoe
prints which, though at first I took them to be only those of the
Countess's horse, soon appeared so numerously together that I saw there
must have been other travellers there recently. I perceived, too, that
the wood was of great depth and extent, and not the narrow strip I had
supposed. It was, in fact, part of a large forest. I became the more
disquieted, till at last, as the light of day began to die out of the
woods, I was oppressed with a belief as strong as certainty, that some
great peril had already fallen upon her I loved.

I came into a little green glade, around which I glanced. My heart
seemed to faint within me, for there, by a small stream that trickled
through the glade, was a horse grazing,--a horse with bridle and saddle
but no rider. The rein hung upon the grass, the saddle was pulled awry,
and the horse was that of the Countess.

I looked wildly in every direction, but she was nowhere to be seen. The
horse raised his head, and whinnied in recognition of me and my animal,
then went on cropping the grass. I rode over to him, as if by
questioning the dumb beast I might learn where his mistress was. There
was no sign of any sort by which I might be guided in seeking her.

I called aloud, "Madame! madame!" But there was only the faint breeze of
evening among the treetops for answer.

But the horse could not have wandered far. Whatever had occurred, there
must be traces near. My best course was to search the forest close at
hand: any one of those darkening aisles stretching on every side, like
corridors leading to caves of gloom, might contain the secret: each
dusky avenue, its ground hidden by tangled forest growth, seemed to bid
me come and discover. I dismounted, knowing I could trust my horse to
stay in the glade, and, crossing the stream, explored