The night wore on, and lifted higher into the sky, and the grey dawn
crept slowly up: first a glimmer, then a neutral glow, then a sort of
darkness again, and presently the candid beginning of day.
As they neared the Parish of Bonaventure, Lavilette looked back again,
and saw the little black notary a few hundred yards behind. He
recognised him this time, waved a hand, and then called to his own fagged
horse. Shangois's mare was not fagged; her heart and body were like
steel.
Not a quarter of a mile behind them both were three of the twenty
artillerymen. Lavilette came to the bridge shouting for Baby, the
keeper. Baby recognised him, and ran to the lever even as the sorel
galloped up. For the first time in the ride, Nic stuck spurs harshly
into the sorel's side. With a grunt of pain the horse sprang madly on.
A half-dozen leaps more and they were across, even as the bridge began to
turn; for Baby had not recognised the little black notary, and supposed
him to be one of Nic's pursuers; the others he saw further back in the
road. It was only when Shangois was a third of the way across, that he
knew the mare's rider. There was no time to turn the bridge back, and
there was no time for Shangois to stop the headlong pace of the mare.
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