He hesitated.  I do not know whether it had anything to do with his hesitation that at that moment the cathedral bell in the town below us began to ring slowly for Vespers.  Yes, he hesitated.  He—­a Caylus.  Turning to him again, I repeated my question impatiently.  “Which shall it be?  A moment, and we shall be moving on, and it will be too late.”

He laid his hand hurriedly on my bridle, and began a rambling answer.  Rambling as it was I gathered his meaning.  It was enough for me!  I cut him short with one word of fiery indignation, and turned to Marie and spoke quickly.  “Will you, then?” I said.

But Marie shook his head in perplexity, and answering little, said the same.  So it happened a second time.

Strange!  Yet strange as it seemed, I was not greatly surprised.  Under other circumstances I should have been beside myself with anger at the defection.  Now I felt as if I had half expected it, and without further words of reproach I dropped my head and gave it up.  I passed again into the stupor of endurance.  The Vidame was too strong for me.  It was useless to fight against him.  We were under the spell.  When the troop moved forward, I went with them, silent and apathetic.

We passed through the gate of Cahors, and no doubt the scene was worthy of note; but I had only a listless eye for it—­much such an eye as a man about to be broken on the wheel must have for that curious instrument, supposing him never to have seen it before.  The whole population had come out to line the streets through which we rode, and stood gazing, with scarcely veiled looks of apprehension, at the procession of troopers and the stern face of the new governor.

We dismounted passively in the courtyard of the castle, and were for going in together, when Bure intervened.  “M. de Pavannes,” he said, pushing rather rudely between us, “will sup alone to-night.  For you, gentlemen, this way, if you please.”

I went without remonstrance.  What was the use?  I was conscious that the Vidame from the top of the stairs leading to the grand entrance was watching us with a wolfish glare in his eyes.  I went quietly.  But I heard Croisette urging something with passionate energy.

We were led through a low doorway to a room on the ground floor; a place very like a cell.  Were we took our meal in silence.  When it was over I flung myself on one of the beds prepared for us, shrinking from my companions rather in misery than in resentment.

No explanation had passed between us.  Still I knew that the other two from time to time eyed me doubtfully.  I feigned therefore to be asleep, but I heard Bure enter to bid us good-night—­and see that we had not escaped.  And I was conscious too of the question Croisette put to him, “Does M. de Pavannes lie alone to-night, Bure?”

“Not entirely,” the captain answered with gloomy meaning.  Indeed he seemed in bad spirits himself, or tired.  “The Vidame is anxious for his soul’s welfare, and sends a priest to him.”