had not come twenty-five miles already. This was a moment of pride for
Lapierre, but of apprehension for Madelinette. At the last two inns on
the road she had got news of both Tardif and Havel. Tardif had had the
final start of half-an-hour. A half-hour's start, and fifteen miles to
go! But one thing was sure, Havel, the wiry Havel, was the better man,
with sounder nerve and a fostered strength.

Yet, as they descended the hill and plunged into the wild wooded valley,
untenanted and uncivilised, where the road wound and curved among giant
boulders and twisted through ravines and gorges, her heart fell within
her. Evening was at hand, and in the thick forest the shadows were
heavy, and night was settling upon them before its time.

They had not gone a mile, however, when, as they swung creaking round a
great boulder, Lapierre pulled up his horses with a loud exclamation, for
almost under his horses' feet lay a man apparently dead, his horse dead
beside him.

It was Havel. In an instant Madelinette and Ma dame Marie were bending
over him. The widow of the Little Chemist had skill and presence of
mind.

"He is not dead, dear mine," said she in a low voice, feeling Havel's
heart.

"Thank God," was all that Madelinette could say. "Let us lift him into
the coach."

Now Lapierre was standing beside them, the reins in his hand. "Leave
that to me," he said, and passed the reins into Madame Marie's hands,