IT was a stormy morning in May. The west wind was sweeping heavy masses of clouds from the Atlantic ocean; and the sun, that now and then gleamed forth with a watery brightness, was soon blotted out by some fresh wreath of vapour, and the shower came on again. But sun or rain seemed to make little difference to two officers, who, mounted on excellent though now somewhat wearied horses, were hurrying through one of the obscure lanes, that leads from Bressuire to Cerisay, in La Vendée. Sometimes it plunged into the heart of a little copse, where the birds, sheltered from the shower, were singing.
