s which hindered her, she climbed the
steep ascent with an energy greater perhaps than that of a man,--the
energy momentarily possessed by a woman under the influence of passion.

Night overtook her as she endeavored by the failing moonlight to make
out the path the marquis must have taken; an obstinate quest without
reward, for the dead silence about her was sufficient proof of the
withdrawal of the Chouans and their leader. This effort of passion
collapsed with the hope that inspired it. Finding herself alone, after
nightfall, in a hostile country, she began to reflect; and Hulot's
advice, together with the recollection of Madame du Gua's attempt, made
her tremble with fear. The stillness of the night, so deep in mountain
regions, enabled her to hear the fall of every leaf even at a distance,
and these slight sounds vibrated on the air as though to give a measure
of the silence or the solitude. The wind was blowing across the heights
and sweeping away the clouds with violence, producing an alternation
of shadows and light, the effect of which increased her fears, and gave
fantastic and terrifying semblances to the most harmless objects. She
turned her eyes to the houses of Fougeres, where the domestic lights
were burning like so many earthly stars, and she presently saw
distinctly the tower of Papegaut. She was but a very short distance from
her own house, but within that space was the ravine. She remembered the
declivities by which she had come, and wondered if there were not more
risk in attempting to return to Fougeres than in following out the
purpose which had brought her. She reflected that the marquis's glove
would surely protect her from the Chouans, and that Madame du Gua was
the only enemy to be really feared. With this idea in her mind, Marie
clasped her dagger, and tried to find the way to a country house the
roofs of which she had noticed as she climbed Saint-Sulpice; but she
walked slowly, for she suddenly became aware of the majestic solemnity
which oppresses a solitary being in the night time in the midst of wild
scenery, where lofty mountains nod their heads like assembled giants.
The rustle of her gown, caught by the brambles, made her tremble more
than once, and more than once she hastened her steps only to slacken
them again as she thought her last hour had come. Before long matters
assumed an aspect which the boldest men could not have faced without
alarm, and which threw Mademoiselle de Verneuil i