And either because he had lived for
days in the victim's company, or was swayed by the arguments he had
addressed to another, the prospect shook his soul.
In vain he told himself that this was the oppressor; he saw only the man,
fresh roused from sleep, with the horror of impending dissolution in his
eyes. And when the rider, behind whom he sat, pointed to a faint spark
of light, at no great distance before them, and whispered that it was St.
Agnes's Chapel, hard by the inn, he could have cried with the best
Catholic of them all, "Inter pontem et fontem, Domine!" Nay, some such
words did pass his lips.
For the man before him turned halfway in his saddle. "What?" he asked.
But the Huguenot did not explain.
CHAPTER XXIV. AT THE KING'S INN.
The Countess sat up in the darkness of the chamber. She had writhed
since noon under the stings of remorse; she could bear them no longer.
The slow declension of the day, the evening light, the signs of coming
tempest which had driven her company to the shelter of the inn at the
crossroads, all had racked her, by reminding her that the hours were
flying, and that soon the fault she had committed would be irreparable.
One impulsive attempt to redeem it she had made; but it had failed, and,
by rendering her suspect, had made reparation more difficult.
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