forms a narrow, winding valley, rich with the most beautiful vegetation.
The weather was magnificent. My room, situated at the top of the tower,
received the rays of the rising sun, which cast the long, thin shadows
of a triple row of poplars as far as the eye could see. Never did
landscape more smiling, fresh, and pastoral offer itself to the eyes
of a prisoner. But how could I find pleasure in it? Words of death and
contumely came to me in every breeze that blew through the wall-flowers
growing in the crannies. Every rustic sound, every tune on the pipe that
rose to my room, seemed to contain an insult or to proclaim profound
contempt for my sorrow. There was nothing, even to the bleating of
the flocks, which did not appear to me an expression of neglect or
indifference.

For some time Marcasse had had one fixed idea, namely, that Edmee had
been shot by John Mauprat. It was possible; but as there was no evidence
to support the conjecture, I at once ordered him not to make known his
suspicions. It was not for me to clear myself at the expense of others.
Although John Mauprat was capable of anything, it was possible that he
had never thought of committing this crime; and as I had not heard him
spoken of for more than six weeks, it seemed to me that it would have
been cowardly to accuse him. I clung to the belief that one of the men
in the battue had fired at Edmee by mistake, and that a feeling of fear
and shame prevented him from confessing his misadventure. Marcasse had
the courage to go and see all those who had taken part in the hunt, and,
with such eloquence as Heaven had granted him, implored them not to fear
the penalty for unintentional murder, and not to allow an innocent man
to be accused in their stead. All these efforts were fruitless; from
none of the huntsmen did my poor friend obtain a reply which left him
any nearer a solution of the mystery that surrounded us.