“I will not leave her,” he exclaimed with an oath, spoken in English, which Jean could not understand.

“Good! very good!  Pardon, monsieur,” responded Jean, laying his iron fingers upon the hand that held me, and loosening its grip as easily as if it had been the hand of a child.—­“Voila! madame, you are free.  Leave Monsieur the Englishman to me, and go away into the house, if you please.”

I did not wait to hear any further altercation, but fled as quickly as I could into the presbytery.  Up into my own chamber I ran, drew a heavy chest against the door, and fell down trembling and nerveless upon the floor beside it.

But there was no time to lose in womanish terrors; my difficulty and danger were too great.  The cure was gone, and would be away at least a fortnight.  How did I know what French law might do with me, in that time?  I dragged myself to the window, and, with my face just above the sill, looked down the street, to see if my husband were in sight.  He was nowhere to be seen, but loitering at one of the doors was the letter-carrier, whose daily work it was to meet the afternoon omnibus returning from Noireau to Granville.  Why should I not write to Tardif?  He had promised to come to my help whenever and wherever I might summon him.  I ran down to Mademoiselle Therese for the materials for a letter, and in a few minutes it was written, and on the way to Sark.

I was still watching intently from my own casement, when I saw Richard Foster come round the corner of the church, and turn down the street.  Many of the women were at their doors, and he stopped to speak to first one and then another.  I guessed what he wanted.  There was no inn in the valley, and he was trying to hire a lodging for the night.  But Jean was following him closely, and from every house he was turned away, baffled and disappointed.  He looked weary and bent, and he leaned heavily upon the strong stick he carried.  At last he passed slowly out of sight, and once more I could breathe freely.

But I could not bring myself to venture downstairs, where the uncurtained windows were level with the court, and the unfastened door opened to my hand.  The night fell while I was still alone, unnerved by the terror I had undergone.  Here and there a light glimmered in a lattice-window, but a deep silence reigned, with no other sound than the brilliant song of a nightingale amid the trees which girdled the village.  Suddenly there was the noisy rattle of wheels over the rough pavement—­the baying of dogs—­an indistinct shout from the few men who were still smoking their pipes under the broad eaves of their houses.  A horrible dread took hold of me.  Was it possible that he returned, with some force—­I knew not what—­which should drag me away from my refuge, and give me up to him?  What would Jean and the villagers do?  What could they do against a body of gendarmes?