sleep. And Madame did sleep, in Perrine's huge box-bedstead, with
a sweet, calm, childlike slumber, whilst her nurse sat watching her
with eyes full of tears of pity and distress; the poor young
thing's buoyant hopefulness and absence of all fear seemed to the
old woman especially sad, and like a sort of want of comprehension
of the full peril in which she stood.

Not till near dawn was Eustacie startled from her rest by
approaching steps. 'Nurse, is all ready?' she cried. 'Can we set
off? Are the horses there?'

'No, my child; it is but my good man and Martin who would speak
with you. Do not hasten. There is nothing amiss as yet.'

'Oh, nurse,' cried Eustacie, as she quickly arranged the dress in
which she had lain down, 'the dear old farm always makes me sleep
well. This is the first time I have had no dream of the whirling
wheel and fiery gates! Oh, is it a token that HE is indeed at
rest? I am so well, so strong. I can ride anywhere now. Let them
come in and tell me.'

Martin was a younger, brisker, cleverer man than Blaise, and
besides being a vassal of the young Lady, was a sort of agent to
whom the Abbess instructed many of the matters of husbandry
regarding the convent lands. He stood, like Blaise, bareheaded as
he talked to little Lady, and heard her somewhat peremptorily
demand why they had not brought the horses and men for her escort.

It was impossible that night, explained Martin. Time was needed to
bring in the farm-horses, and summon the other peasants, without