on taunt, “if you dare, and if you hate me.  What, still afraid!  How shall I give you heart?  Shall I strike you?  It will not be the first time by ten.  I keep count, you see,” he continued mockingly.  “Or shall I kiss you?  Ay, that may do.  And it will not be against your will, either, for you have that in your hand will save you in an instant.  Even”—­he drew a foot nearer—­“now!  Even—­” And he stooped until his lips almost touched hers.

She sprang back.  “Oh, do not!” she cried.  “Oh, do not!” And, dropping the dagger, she covered her face with her hands, and burst into weeping.

He stooped coolly, and, after groping some time for the poniard, drew it from the leaves among which it had fallen.  He put it into the sheath, and not until he had done that did he speak.  Then it was with a sneer.

“I have no need to fear overmuch,” he said.  “You are a poor hater, Madame.  And poor haters make poor lovers.  ’Tis his loss!  If you will not strike a blow for him, there is but one thing left.  Go, dream of him!”

And, shrugging his shoulders contemptuously, he turned on his heel.

CHAPTER XXXIII.  THE AMBUSH.

The start they made at daybreak was gloomy and ill-omened, through one of those white mists which are blown from the Atlantic over the flat lands of Western Poitou.  The horses, looming gigantic through the fog, winced as the cold harness was girded on them.  The men hurried to and fro with saddles on their heads, and stumbled over other saddles, and swore savagely.  The women turned mutinous and would not rise; or, being dragged up by force, shrieked wild, unfitting words, as they were driven to the horses.  The Countess looked on and listened, and shuddered, waiting for Carlat to set her on her horse.  She had gone during the last three weeks through much that was dreary, much that was hopeless; but the chill discomfort of this forced start, with tired horses and wailing women, would have darkened the prospect of home had there been no fear or threat to cloud it.

He whose will compelled all stood a little apart and watched all, silent and gloomy.  When Badelon, after taking his orders and distributing some slices of black bread to be eaten in the saddle, moved off at the head of his troop, Count Hannibal remained behind, attended by Bigot and the eight riders who had formed the rearguard so far.  He had not approached the Countess since rising, and she had been thankful for it.  But now, as she moved away, she looked back and saw him still standing; she marked that he wore his corselet, and in one of those revulsions of feeling—­which outrun man’s reason—­she who had tossed on her couch through half the night, in passionate revolt against the fate before her, took fire at his neglect and his silence; she resented on a sudden the distance he kept, and his scorn of her.  Her breast heaved, her colour came, involuntarily she checked her horse, as if she would return to him, and speak to him.  Then the Carlats and the others closed up behind her, Badelon’s monotonous “Forward, Madame, en avant!” proclaimed the day’s journey begun, and she saw him no more.