Bigot, with his low brow and matted hair, was the abject slave of Suzanne, Madame St.Lo's woman, who twitted him mercilessly on his Norman _patois_, and poured the vials of her scorn on him a dozen times a day.

In all, with La Tribe and the Carlats, Madame St.Lo's servants, and the Countess's following, they numbered not far short of two score; and when they halted at noon, and under the shadow of some leafy tree, ate their mid-day meal, or drowsed to the tinkle of Madame St.Lo's lute, it was difficult to believe that Paris existed, or that these same people had so lately left its blood-stained pavements.
They halted this morning a little earlier than usual.

Madame St.Lo had barely answered her companion's question before the subject of their discussion swung himself from old Sancho's back, and stood waiting to assist them to dismount.

Behind him, where the green valley through which the road passed narrowed to a rocky gate, an old mill stood among willows at the foot of a mound.

On the mound behind it a ruined castle which had stood siege in the Hundred Years' War raised its grey walls; and beyond this the stream which turned the mill poured over rocks with a cool rushing sound that proved irresistible.