The Race was running furiously through the Gouliot, but I would have got
through it if it had been twice as strong. There was a wild fury in my
heart at thought of Carette in Torode's hands, which ravened for
opposition--for something, anything, to rend and tear and overcome.

If I had come across Torode himself I would have hurled myself at his
throat, though all his ruffians stood between; and had I clutched it they
had hacked my hands off before I had let go.

I whirled up to the Galé de Jacob before prudence told me that two men
armed are of more account than one man with nothing but a heart on fire,
and that it would have been good to run round for Le Marchant. But my one
thought had been to get to the place where Carette was in extremity, and
the fire within me felt equal to all it might encounter.

I climbed the rocky way hot-foot, and sped down through the furze and
golden-rod to the house. The door was open and I ran in. A drawn white
face, with grizzled hair and drooping white moustache, and two dark eyes
like smouldering fires, jerked feebly up out of a bunk at the far end, and
then sank down again. It was Jean Le Marchant.

There was no sign of disorder in the room. In the next bunk another man
lay apparently asleep.

"Where is Carette?" I asked hastily, but not without hope, from the lack of
signs of disturbance.

"Where is she?" he asked feebly, with a touch of impatience.