before his mind the picture of Madame St. Lo's smiling face, and the fair
hair which curled low on the white of her neck.

He would, and he would not. Death that had stalked so near him preached
its solemn sermon. But death and pleasure are never far apart; and at no
time and nowhere have they jostled one another more familiarly than in
that age, wherever the influence of Italy and Italian art and Italian
hopelessness extended. Again, on the one side, La Tribe's example went
for something with his comrade in misfortune; but in the other scale hung
relief from discomfort, with the prospect of a woman's smiles and a
woman's flatteries, of dainty dishes, luxury, and passion. If he went
now, he went to her from the jaws of death, with the glamour of adventure
and peril about him; and the very going into her presence was a lure.
Moreover, if he had been willing while his betrothed was still his, why
not now when he had lost her?

It was this last reflection--and one other thing which came on a sudden
into his mind--which turned the scale. About noon he sat up in the hay,
and, abruptly and sullenly, "I'll lie here no longer," he said; and he
dropped his legs over the side. "I shall go."

The movement was so unexpected that La Tribe stared at him in silence.
Then, "You will run a great risk, M. de Tignonville," he said gravely,
"if you do. You may go as far under cover of night as the river, or you
may reach one of the gates. But as to crossing the one or passing the
other, I reckon it a thing impossible."

"I shall not wait until night," Tignonville answered curtly, a ring of
defiance in his tone. "I shall go now! I'll lie here no longer!"