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210 of the start and the common round of the journey put to flight the ideals of the night. But things fell out in a manner she had not pictured. They halted before noon on the north bank of the Loir, in a level meadow with lines of poplars running this way and that, and filling all the place with the soft shimmer of leaves. Blue succory, tiny mirrors of the summer sky, flecked the long grass, and the women picked bunches of them, or, Italian fashion, twined the blossoms in their hair. A road ran across the meadow to a ferry, but the ferryman, alarmed by the aspect of the party, had conveyed his boat to the other side and hidden himself.

Presently Madame St. Lo espied the boat, clapped her hands and must have it. The poplars threw no shade, the flies teased her, the life of a hermit—in a meadow—was no longer to her taste.

“Let us go on the water!” she cried. “Presently you will go to bathe, Monsieur, and leave us to grill!”

“Two livres to the man who will fetch the boat!” Count Hannibal cried.

In less than half a minute three men had thrown off their boots, and were swimming across, amid the laughter and shouts of their fellows. In five minutes the boat was brought.

It was not large and would hold no more than four. Tavannes’ eye fell on Carlat.

“You understand a boat,” he said. “Go with Madame St. Lo. And you, M. La Tribe.”

“But you are coming?” Madame St. Lo cried, turning to the Countess. “Oh, Madame,” with a curtsey, “you are not? You”

“Yes, I will come,” the Countess answered.

“I shall bathe a short distance up the stream,” Count Hannibal said. He took from his belt the packet of letters, and as Carlat held the boat for Madame St. Lo to enter, he