"I ’m not," said Marguerite, with a whimsical glance at her costume, which consisted of an old brown skirt of Madelon’s, a rough print bodice, and a dark, patched cloak, which covered her from head to foot. They stole out noiselessly, Madelon calling under her breath to the yard dog, who sniffed at them in the darkness, and then lay down again with a rustle of straw. Afterwards Aline thought of the scene which followed as the most dreamlike of all her queer experiences. The things which she remembered most vividly were Marguerite’s soft ripple of laughter, half-childish, half-nervous, as she threw a handful of pebbles at the curé’s window, and the moonlight glinting on the pane as the casement opened. What followed was like the inconsequent and fantastic dramas of sleep. The explanations—the protests, the curé’s voice ashake with timidity, until at last his fear of immediate discovery overbore his terror of future consequences, and he began to murmur the words which Aline had heard last in circumstances as strange, and far more terrifying. For days she wondered to herself over the odd scene: Desmond with his head bent towards his betrothed, and his deep voice muffled; and Marguerite pledging herself childishly—taking the great vows, and smiling all the time. Only at the very end she turned and threw her arms round Aline, holding her as if she would never leave go, and straining against her with a choked sob or two. "No, no, I can’t go—I can’t!" she murmured, but Aline wrenched herself away. "Marguerite, for God’s sake!" she said. "It is too late,—you must go"; and as Desmond stepped between them Marguerite caught his arm and held it in a wild grip. "Oh, you’ll save me!" And for once Aline was thankful for his tone of careless ease—— "My jewel, what a question! Why, we ’re off on our honeymoon. ’T is a most original one. Well, we must go. Good-bye, my cousin," and he took Aline’s hand in a grip that surprised her. "I’ll not forget what you’ve done," he said, and kissed it; and so, without more ado, they were gone, and Aline was alone in the chequered moonlight before the priest’s house, where the closed window spoke of the haste with which M. le Curé withdrew himself from participation in so perilous an affair. CHAPTER XXVI A DYING WOMAN Next day brought it home to Madelon how true her forebodings had been. Noon brought her a visit from her father, and nothing would serve him but to go into every hole and corner. He alleged a wish to admire her housewifery, but the dark brow with which he accompanied her, and the quick, suspicious glances which he cast all round, made Madelon thank every saint in the calendar that the fugitives were well on the road, and that she had removed every trace of their presence betimes.