But I have remembered the horse and have asked this sergeant that a soldier fetch him. “You blithering idiot!” he exclaimed. ‘It looked to me as if he was playing games with Madame Valade,’ Lucilla said frankly. Fatigued by his previous exertions, and incumbered by his fetters, he was by no means—though ordinarily remarkably swift of foot—a match for his foes, who were fast gaining upon him. If only sometimes he would grow angry at her, impatient! But his tender courtesy was unfailing; and under this would be the abiding bitterness of having mistaken gratitude for love.
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