Now he held the thought in horror, foreseeing no county, but the cage under the stifling tiles at Loches, in which Cardinal Balue and many another had worn out their hearts.
He came to that thought not by way of his own peril, but of Mademoiselle's; which affected him in so novel a fashion that he wondered at his folly.

At last, tired of watching the shadows which the draught set dancing on the wall, he drew his cloak about him and lay down on the straw.

He had kept vigil the previous night, and in a few minutes, with a campaigner's ease, he was asleep.
Midnight had struck.

About two the light in the lanthorn burned low in the socket, and with a soft sputtering went out.

For an hour after that the room lay still, silent, dark; then slowly the grey dawn, the greyer for the river mist which wrapped the neighbourhood in a clammy shroud, began to creep into the room and discover the vague shapes of things.
Again an hour passed, and the sun was rising above Montreuil, and here and there the river began to shimmer through the fog.