Moving steadily south-westward by the lesser roads and bridle-tracks--for Count Hannibal seemed averse from the great road--they had lain the second night in a village three leagues from Bonneval.

A journey of two days on fresh horses is apt to change scenery and eye alike; but seldom has an alteration--in themselves and all about them--as great as that which blessed this little company, been wrought in so short a time.

From the stifling wynds and evil-smelling lanes of Paris, they had passed to the green uplands, the breezy woods and babbling streams of the upper Orleannais; from sights and sounds the most appalling, to the solitude of the sandy heath, haunt of the great bustard, or the sunshine of the hillside, vibrating with the songs of larks; from an atmosphere of terror and gloom to the freedom of God's earth and sky.

Numerous enough--they numbered a score of armed men--to defy the lawless bands which had their lairs in the huge forest of Orleans, they halted where they pleased: at mid-day under a grove of chestnut-trees, or among the willows beside a brook; at night, if they willed it, under God's heaven.

Far, not only from Paris, but from the great road, with its gibbets and pillories--the great road which at that date ran through a waste, no peasant living willingly within sight of it--they rode in the morning and in the evening, resting in the heat of the day.