And by chance, meaning only to make the horses move on again, he raised his whip.  She thought that he was going to strike her, and she flinched at last.  The whip fell smartly on her horse’s quarters, and it sprang forward.  Count Hannibal swore between his teeth.

He had turned pale, she red as fire.  “Get on!  Get on!” he cried harshly.  “We are falling behind!” And riding at her heels, flipping her horse now and then, he forced her to trot on until they overtook the servants.

CHAPTER XXVII.  THE BLACK TOWN.

It was late evening when, riding wearily on jaded horses, they came to the outskirts of Angers, and saw before them the term of their journey.  The glow of sunset had faded, but the sky was still warm with the last hues of day; and against its opal light the huge mass of the Angevin castle, which even in sunshine rises dark and forbidding above the Mayenne, stood up black and sharply defined.  Below it, on both banks of the river, the towers and spires of the city soared up from a sombre huddle of ridge-roofs, broken here by a round-headed gateway, crumbling and pigeon-haunted, that dated from St. Louis, and there by the gaunt arms of a windmill.

The city lay dark under a light sky, keeping well its secrets.  Thousands were out of doors enjoying the evening coolness in alley and court, yet it betrayed the life which pulsed in its arteries only by the low murmur which rose from it.  Nevertheless, the Countess at sight of its roofs tasted the first moment of happiness which had been hers that day.  She might suffer, but she had saved.  Those roofs would thank her!  In that murmur were the voices of women and children she had redeemed!  At the sight and at the thought a wave of love and tenderness swept all bitterness from her breast.  A profound humility, a boundless thankfulness took possession of her.  Her head sank lower above her horse’s mane; but this time it sank in reverence, not in shame.

Could she have known what was passing beneath those roofs which night was blending in a common gloom—­could she have read the thoughts which at that moment paled the cheeks of many a stout burgher, whose gabled house looked on the great square, she had been still more thankful.  For in attics and back rooms women were on their knees at that hour, praying with feverish eyes; and in the streets men—­on whom their fellows, seeing the winding-sheet already at the chin, gazed askance—­smiled, and showed brave looks abroad, while their hearts were sick with fear.

For darkly, no man knew how, the news had come to Angers.  It had been known, more or less, for three days.  Men had read it in other men’s eyes.  The tongue of a scold, the sneer of an injured woman had spread it, the birds of the air had carried it.  From garret window to garret window across the narrow lanes of the old town it had been whispered at dead of night; at convent grilles,