Hildegarde rode alone, in the middle carriage.  Such had been her desire.  She did not touch her supper.  And when, late at night, they entered the gates of Corte and stepped down before the hotel lights, Laura observed that Hildegarde’s face was streaked by the passage of many burning tears.  She longed to comfort her, but the older woman held aloof.

Men rarely note these things, and when they do it has to be forced upon them.  Fitzgerald, genuine in his regret for Cathewe, was otherwise at peace with the world.  He alone of them all had found a treasure, the incomparable treasure of a woman’s love.

Racing his horses all through the night, scouring for fresh ones at dawn and finding them, and away again, climbing, turning, climbing round this pass, over that bridge, through this cut, thus flew Breitmann, the passion of haste upon him.  By this tremendous pace he succeeded in arriving at Evisa before the admiral had covered half the distance to Carghese.

How clear and keen his mind was as on he rolled!  A thousand places wove themselves to the parent-stem.  He even laughed aloud, sending a shiver up the spine of the driver, who was certain his old padrone was mad.  The face of Laura drifted past him as in a dream, and then again, that of the other woman.  No, no; he regretted nothing, absolutely nothing.  But he had been a fool there; he had wasted time and lent himself to a despicable intrigue.  For all that he outcried it, there was a touch of shame on his cheeks when he remembered that, had he asked, she would have given him that scrap of paper the first hour of their meeting.  Somewhere in Hildegarde von Mitter lay dormant the spirit of heroes.  He had made a mistake.

Two millions of shining money, gold, silver, and English notes!  And he laughed again as he recalled M. Ferraud, caught in a trap.  He was clever, but not clever enough.  What a stroke!  To make prisoners of the party on their return, to carry the girl away into the mountains!  Would any of them think of treasures, of conspiracies, with her as a hostage?  He thought not.  In the hue and cry for her, these elements in the game would fall to a minor place.  Well he knew M. Ferraud:  he would call to heaven for the safety of Laura.  Love her?  Yes!  She was the one woman.  But men did not make captives of women and obtain their love.  He knew the futility of such coercion.  He had committed two or three scoundrelly acts, but never would he or could he sink to such a level.  No.  He meant no harm at all.  Frighten her, perhaps, and terrorize the others; and mayhap take a kiss as he left her to the coming of her friends.  Nothing more serious than that.