"She must be beneath that fig-tree," he said, pointing to the foliage
of a tree which rose above the wall to the left of the gate.

"She! who?"

"How can I tell?" replied Monsieur d'Albon. "A strange woman rose up
there, just before me," he said in a low voice; "she seemed to come
from the world of shades rather than from the land of the living. She
is so slender, so light, so filmy, she must be diaphanous. Her face
was as white as milk; her eyes, her clothes, her hair jet black. She
looked at me as she flitted by, and though I may say I'm no coward,
that cold immovable look froze the blood in my veins."

"Is she pretty?" asked Philippe.

"I don't know. I could see nothing but the eyes in that face."

"Well, let the dinner at Cassan go to the devil!" cried the colonel.
"Suppose we stay here. I have a sudden childish desire to enter that
singular house. Do you see those window-frames painted red, and the
red lines on the doors and shutters? Doesn't the place look to you as
if it belonged to the devil?--perhaps he inherited it from the monks.
Come, let us pursue the black and white lady--forward, march!" cried
Philippe, with forced gaiety.

At that instant the two huntsmen heard a cry that was something like
that of a mouse caught in a trap. They listened. The rustle of a few
shrubs sounded in the silence like the murmur of a breaking wave. In
vain they listened for other sounds; the earth was dumb, and kept the
secret of those light steps, if, indeed, the unknown woman moved at