hands and a hundred sabres in those hands. More than once he had been in
danger of his life, and yet he had had no fear.

He had in him the power of hatred; and he hated Ferrol as he had never
hated anything in his life. He hated him as much as, in a furtive sort
of way, he loved the rebellious, primitive and violent Christine.

As he rode on a hundred fancies passed through his brain, and they all
had to do with killing or torturing. As a boy dreams of magnificent
deeds of prowess, so he dreamed of deeds of violence and cruelty. In his
life he had been secret, not vicious; he had enjoyed the power which
comes from holding the secrets of others, and that had given him pleasure
enough. But now, as if the true passion, the vital principle, asserted
itself at the very last, so with the shadow of death behind him, his real
nature was dominant. He was entirely sane, entirely natural, only
malicious.

The night wore on, and lifted higher into the sky, and the grey dawn
crept slowly up: first a glimmer, then a neutral glow, then a sort of
darkness again, and presently the candid beginning of day.

As they neared the Parish of Bonaventure, Lavilette looked back again,
and saw the little black notary a few hundred yards behind. He
recognised him this time, waved a hand, and then called to his own fagged
horse. Shangois's mare was not fagged; her heart and body were like
steel.

Not a quarter of a mile behind them both were three of the twenty
artillerymen. Lavilette came to the bridge shouting for Baby, the
keeper. Baby recognised him, and ran to the lever even as the sorel