“I see,” said I; “it seems to be going our way.  Curious to see a cormorant in a forest, isn’t it?”

“It is a bad sign,” said Lys.  “You know the Morbihan proverb:  ’When the cormorant turns from the sea, Death laughs in the forest, and wise woodsmen build boats.’”

“I wish,” said I sincerely, “that there were fewer proverbs in Brittany.”

We were in sight of the forest now; across the gorse I could see the sparkle of gendarmes’ trappings, and the glitter of Le Bihan’s silver-buttoned jacket.  The hedge was low and we took it without difficulty, and trotted across the moor to where Le Bihan and Durand stood gesticulating.

They bowed ceremoniously to Lys as we rode up.

“The trail is horrible—­it is a river,” said the mayor in his squeaky voice.  “Monsieur Darrel, I think perhaps madame would scarcely care to come any nearer.”

Lys drew bridle and looked at me.

“It is horrible!” said Durand, walking up beside me; “it looks as though a bleeding regiment had passed this way.  The trail winds and winds about here in the thickets; we lose it at times, but we always find it again.  I can’t understand how one man—­no, nor twenty—­could bleed like that!”

A halloo, answered by another, sounded from the depths of the forest.

“It’s my men; they are following the trail,” muttered the brigadier.  “God alone knows what is at the end!”

“Shall we gallop back, Lys?” I asked.

“No; let us ride along the western edge of the woods and dismount.  The sun is so hot now, and I should like to rest for a moment,” she said.

“The western forest is clear of anything disagreeable,” said Durand.

“Very well,” I answered; “call me, Le Bihan, if you find anything.”

Lys wheeled her mare, and I followed across the springy heather, Mome trotting cheerfully in the rear.

We entered the sunny woods about a quarter of a kilometer from where we left Durand.  I took Lys from her horse, flung both bridles over a limb, and, giving my wife my arm, aided her to a flat mossy rock which overhung a shallow brook gurgling among the beech trees.  Lys sat down and drew off her gauntlets.  Mome pushed his head into her lap, received an undeserved caress, and came doubtfully toward me.  I was weak enough to condone his offense, but I made him lie down at my feet, greatly to his disgust.

I rested my head on Lys’s knees, looking up at the sky through the crossed branches of the trees.

“I suppose I have killed him,” I said.  “It shocks me terribly, Lys.”

“You could not have known, dear.  He may have been a robber, and—­if—­not—­did—­have you ever fired your revolver since that day four years ago when the Red Admiral’s son tried to kill you?  But I know you have not.”

“No,” said I, wondering.  “It’s a fact, I have not.  Why?”

“And don’t you remember that I asked you to let me load it for you the day when Yves went off, swearing to kill you and his father?”