Isere, watching for the horseman that must come that way. Then,
as time sped on and the sun approached its setting and still no one
came, she bethought her that if harm had befallen Marius, none would
ride that night to Condillac. This very delay seemed pregnant with
news of disaster. And then she shook off her fears and tried to
comfort herself. There was not yet time. Besides, what had she to
fear for Marius? He was strong and quick, and Fortunio was by his
side. A man was surely dead by now at La Rochette; but that man
could not be Marius.

At last, in the distance, she espied a moving object, and down on
the silent air of eventide came the far-off rattle of a horse's hoofs.
Some one was riding, galloping that way. He was returned at last.
She leaned on the battlements, her breath coming in quick, short
gasps, and watched the horseman growing larger with every stride of
his horse.

A mist was rising from the river, and it dimmed the figure; and she
cursed the mist for heightening her anxiety, for straining further
her impatience. Then a new fear was begotten in her mind. Why came
one horseman only where two should have ridden? Who was it that
returned, and what had befallen his companion? God send, at least,
it might be Marius who rode thus, at such a breakneck pace.

At last she could make him out. He was close to the chateau now,
and she noticed that his right arm was bandaged and hanging in a
sling. And then a scream broke from her, and she bit her lip hard
to keep another in check, for she had seen the horseman's face, and
it was Fortunio's. Fortunio - and wounded! Then, assuredly, Marius
was dead!