Had he not moved, she would have done his will; almost certainly she would have done it.  But, thus attacked, she resisted instinctively; she clung to the letters.

“No!” she cried.  “No!  Let go, Monsieur!” And she tried to drag the packet from him.

“Give it me!”

“Let go, Monsieur!  Do you hear?” she repeated.  And, with a vigorous jerk, she forced it from him—­he had caught it by the edge only—­and held it behind her.  “Go back, and—­”

“Give it me!” he panted.

“I will not!”

“Then throw it overboard!”

“I will not!” she cried again, though his face, dark with passion, glared into hers, and it was clear that the man, possessed by one idea only, was no longer master of himself.  “Go back to your place!”

“Give it me,” he gasped, “or I will upset the boat!” And, seizing her by the shoulder, he reached over her, striving to take hold of the packet which she held behind her.  The boat rocked; and, as much in rage as fear, she screamed.

A cry uttered wholly in rage answered hers; it came from Carlat.  La Tribe, however, whose whole mind was fixed on the packet, did not heed, nor would have heeded, the steward.  But the next moment a second cry, fierce as that of a wild beast, clove the air from the lower and farther bank; and the Huguenot, recognizing Count Hannibal’s voice, involuntarily desisted and stood erect.  A moment the boat rocked perilously under him; then—­for unheeded it had been drifting that way—­it softly touched the bank on which Carlat stood staring and aghast.

La Tribe’s chance was gone; he saw that the steward must reach him before he could succeed in a second attempt.  On the other hand, the undergrowth on the bank was thick, he could touch it with his hand, and if he fled at once he might escape.

He hung an instant irresolute; then, with a look which went to the Countess’s heart, he sprang ashore, plunged among the alders, and in a moment was gone.

“After him!  After him!” thundered Count Hannibal.  “After him, man!” and Carlat, stumbling down the steep slope and through the rough briars, did his best to obey.  But in vain.  Before he reached the water’s edge, the noise of the fugitive’s retreat had grown faint.  A few seconds and it died away.

CHAPTER XXII.  PLAYING WITH FIRE.

The impulse of La Tribe’s foot as he landed had driven the boat into the stream.  It drifted slowly downward, and if naught intervened, would take the ground on Count Hannibal’s side, a hundred and fifty yards below him.  He saw this, and walked along the bank, keeping pace with it, while the Countess sat motionless, crouching in the stern of the craft, her fingers strained about the fatal packet.  The slow glide of the boat, as almost imperceptibly it approached the low bank; the stillness of the mirror-like surface on which it moved, leaving only the faintest ripple behind it; the silence—­for under the influence of emotion Count Hannibal too was mute—­all were in tremendous contrast with the storm which raged in her breast.