first.  His heart sank within him, and he staggered as he still ran feebly on—­feeling now the effects of his superhuman exertions, and fearing at each step that his feet would carry him no farther.  He was soon overtaken by Herode and Scapin, who, alarmed by the pistol shot, and fearing that something was wrong, had started in hot pursuit, though the lackey who served them as guide had done all that he possibly could to hinder them, and in a few faltering words he told them what had occurred.

“Vallombreuse again!” cried the tyrant, with an oath.  “But how the devil did he get wind of our expedition to the Chateau de Pommereuil? or can it be possible that it was all a plot from the beginning, and we are bound on a fool’s errand?  I really begin to think it must be so.  If it is true, I never saw a better actor in my life than that respectable old major-domo, confound him!  But let us make haste and search this grove thoroughly; we may find some trace of poor Isabelle; sweet creature that she is!  Rough old tyrant though I be, my heart warms to her, and I love her more tenderly than I do myself.  Alas!  I’m afraid, that this poor, innocent, little fly is caught in the toils of a cruel spider, who will take care never to let us get sight of her again.”

“I will crush him,” said de Sigognac, striking his heel savagely on the ground, as if he actually had the spider under it.  “I will crush the life out of him, the venomous beast!” and the fierce, determined expression of his usually calm, mild countenance showed that this was no idle threat, but that he was terribly in earnest.

“Look,” cried Herode, as they dashed through the thicket, “there they are!”

They could just discern, through the screen of leafless but thickly interlaced branches, a carriage, with all the curtains carefully closed, and drawn by four horses lashed to a gallop, which was rapidly rolling away from them in the distance.  The two men whose horses had run away with them had them again under control, and were riding on either side of it—­one of them leading the horse that had carried Isabelle and her captor.  He was doubtless mounting guard over her in the carriage—­perhaps using force to keep her quiet—­at thought of which de Sigognac could scarcely control the transport of rage and agony that shook him.  Although the three pursuers followed the fugitives, as fast as they could run, it was all of no avail, for they soon lost sight of them altogether, and nothing remained to be done but to ascertain, if possible, the direction they had taken, so as to have some clew to poor Isabelle’s whereabouts.  They had considerable difficulty in making out the marks of the carriage wheels, for the roads were very dry; and when at length they had succeeded in tracing them to a place where four roads met they lost them entirely—­it was utterly impossible to tell which way they had gone.  After a long and fruitless search they turned back sorrowfully