A moment he paused to shake himself, and then, remembering that he was still within a mile of the camp, he set off, now walking, and now running in the direction of the hills which his party had crossed that morning.
For a time he hurried on, thinking only of escape.

But when he had covered a mile or two, and escape seemed probable, there began to mingle with his thankfulness a bitter--a something which grew more bitter with each moment.

Why had he fled and left the work undone?
Why had he given way to unworthy fear, when the letters were within his grasp?
True, if he had lingered a few seconds longer, he would have failed to make good his escape; but what of that if in those seconds he had destroyed the letters, he had saved Angers, he had saved his brethren?
Alas! he had played the coward.

The terror of Tavannes' voice had unmanned him.

He had saved himself and left the flock to perish; he, whom God had set apart by many and great signs for this work! He had commonly courage enough.