It seemed to her but a minute that she stood there, but the dawn was breaking when there was a sudden confusion in the opposite room. She heard Colette's voice, and then George's, calling Lisa. There was no answer. Frances stood up, to listen. "Will she not speak?" she cried. "Make her speak!" But in reality she said nothing. Even her breath had stopped to listen. There was no answer. Frances was awake now, for the rest of her life. She knew what she had done. "Why, George," she said, "she cannot speak. She is dead. I did it." She stood in the room a minute, looking from side to side, and then went with measured steps out of it, down the corridor and into the street. "I did it," she said to herself again and again, as she walked slowly on. The old cathedral is opposite to the inn. Her eyes, as she passed, rested on the gargoyles, and she thought how fine they were. One was a ridiculous head with lolling tongue. A priest's voice inside was chanting mass. A dozen Breton women in their huge white winged caps and wooden shoes hurried up to the door, through the gray fog. They met Mrs. Waldeaux and saw her face. They huddled to one side, crossing themselves, and when she passed, stood still, forgetting the mass and looking, frightened, up the steep street behind her to find what horror had pursued her. "They know what I have done," she said aloud. Once when she was a child she had accidentally seen a bloated wretch, a murderer, on his way to the gallows. "I am he," she thought. "I--_I_, Frances." Then the gargoyle came into her mind again. What a capital headpiece it would make for "Quigg's" next column! It was time this week's jokes were sent. But at last these ghosts of yesterday's life faded out, and she saw the fact. She had hated her son's wife and had killed her! CHAPTER XV When the sun was well up the women who had been at mass gathered down by the little river which runs through the old city, to wash their clothes. They knelt on the broad stones by the edge of the water, chattering and singing, tossing the soap from one to another. There was a sudden silence. "Here she is again," they whispered, as a slight, delicate woman crossed the bridge with steady steps. "She is blind and deaf," said old Barbe. "I met her an hour ago and asked her whom she sought. She did not see nor hear me, but walked straight on." Oliver Bauzy was lounging near, as usual, watching his wife work. "She is English. What does she know of your Breton talk? I speak English and French--I!" he bragged, and walking up to Mrs. Waldeaux, he flourished his ragged hat, smiling. "Is madame ill? She has walked far," he said kindly. The English words seemed to waken her. "It is always the town," looking around bewildered. "The people--houses. I think I am not well. If I could find the woods----"