A half-hour's start, and fifteen miles to go! But one thing was sure, Havel, the wiry Havel, was the better man, with sounder nerve and a fostered strength.
Yet, as they descended the hill and plunged into the wild wooded valley, untenanted and uncivilised, where the road wound and curved among giant boulders and twisted through ravines and gorges, her heart fell within her.

Evening was at hand, and in the thick forest the shadows were heavy, and night was settling upon them before its time.
They had not gone a mile, however, when, as they swung creaking round a great boulder, Lapierre pulled up his horses with a loud exclamation, for almost under his horses' feet lay a man apparently dead, his horse dead beside him.
It was Havel.

In an instant Madelinette and Ma dame Marie were bending over him.

The widow of the Little Chemist had skill and presence of mind.
"He is not dead, dear mine," said she in a low voice, feeling Havel's heart.
"Thank God," was all that Madelinette could say.

"Let us lift him into the coach." Now Lapierre was standing beside them, the reins in his hand.