"It was fancy, of course," said de Maurel after a while, seeing that Fernande had turned very white and that she clung with a pathetic unspoken appeal for support to his arm. "I have often heard this melancholy call when the wind stirred among the trees. 'Tis no wonder the poor folk of the country-side fly from this place in terror! There is something spectral in the sound." "You don't believe," murmured Fernande, "you don't believe in the pigeons of St. Front?" "What is there to believe in such an ancient legend?" "That the cooing of the pigeons foretells disaster to those that hear it?" "No," he replied decisively. "I do not believe it in this case, Mademoiselle Fernande. The world would be topsy-turvy, indeed, and God asleep in the heavens, if disaster were to overtake so perfect a creature as you." She broke into a low, little laugh, which to a more sophisticated ear would have sounded mirthless and forced. "Eh, _mon cousin_," she said, "you attribute to the world certain desires for my welfare which, of a truth, scarcely concern it, and God, I imagine, when He endowed us with free-will, left us to be the architects of our own destiny." "With an overseer, mayhap," he added with earnest significance, "to watch over the safety of the building." She chose to misinterpret his meaning and not to see the look which accompanied his words. "Is it not time we went to the foundry?" she asked. The spell was broken. Fernande de Courson became the self-possessed young woman of the world once more, and Ronnay de Maurel the clumsy rustic, who is greatly honoured by the condescension of a great lady infinitely above him in station. They turned away from the pool, which seemed more absolutely silent now that the cooing of the pigeons had been merged in the ceaseless murmurings of the woods. Fernande leaned on Ronnay's arm, and he guided her along the paths and through the clearings, walking silently by her side. When they reached the open, he pointed to the left where the main country road wound its smooth ribbon at the foot of the distant hills. Here a small one-horsed vehicle was standing, some few metres away from the edge of the wood. "It is another five or six kilometres to the foundries from here, Mademoiselle," he said, "so every morning, always hoping that you would come, I ventured to order a carriole to await you here; one of our men will drive you by the road." Fernande was conscious of a slight feeling of vexation. "But you, _mon cousin_?" she asked. "I walk across the fields," he replied curtly, "they are ploughed and ankle-deep in mud; but I will be at the foundry in time to await your coming."