“Nothing—nothing to worry about,” he said in a reassuring tone. “On the contrary—the trotting of a horse a long way off. It’s just what I wanted, and I’m delighted. It means safety for you.” He lowered her from his shoulder and carried her in his arms as if she were a small child. He went at a jog-trot for another three or four hundred yards, and came to the cross-roads, at which the main road crossed the road from Romillaud. The grass was so damp that as he sat down on the embankment he said: “Stay where you are on my knee and listen to me carefully. That carriage you hear is that of the doctor they have sent for. I will get rid of the good fellow by tying him very gently to a tree. Then we’ll get into the carriage and drive all night to some station on another line.” She did not answer. He suspected that she did not hear what he was saying. Her hand was burning. She stammered in a kind of delirium: “I did not murder them! I did not!” “Be quiet,” said Ralph roughly. “We’ll talk about that later on.” They were both silent. The immense peace of the sleeping plain seemed to spread around them stretches of silence and safety. Only the trotting of the horse now and again struck on their ears in the darkness; two or three times, how far away they could not guess, they saw the lamps of the carriage like wide open eyes. There came no noise, no menace from the direction of the station. Ralph reflected on this strange situation and beside the form of this mysterious murderess, whose heart was beating so strongly that he could feel its distracted rhythm, he summoned up the figure of the Parisienne, which he had seen eight or nine hours previously, happy and to all seeming without a care in the world. The two images, so different from one another, grew confused in his mind. The memory of the ravishing vision was lessening his hatred against this girl who had murdered the English girl. But did he hate her? He dwelt on the word and said to himself savagely: “I do hate her. Whatever she may say, she is a murderess. It is her fault and that of her accomplices that the English girl is dead. I do hate her. Miss Bakersfield shall be avenged!” However, he let none of these thoughts find utterance. On the contrary, he was aware that he was uttering the gentlest of words. “Misfortune falls on people when they’re not even dreaming of it, doesn’t it? One is happy—full of life—then the crime occurs. But it will be all right. You shall tell me all about it, and we’ll smooth things out.”