He did not know how to tell her that for the last hour he had had but one thought, and that was of her. Durocher appeared suddenly before them. “They are saved, Madame,” said the old man, brusquely; “come quickly, embrace them, and return home, or we shall have to treat you to-morrow. You are very imprudent to have remained in this damp wood, and it was absurd of Monsieur to let you do so.” She took the arm of the old doctor, smiling, and reentered the hut. The two children, now roused from the dangerous torpor, but who seemed still terrified by the threatened death, raised their little round heads. She made them a sign to keep quiet, and leaned over their pillow smiling upon them, and imprinted two kisses on their golden curls. “To-morrow, my angels,” she said. But the mother, half laughing, half crying, followed Madame de Tecle step by step, speaking to her, and kissing her garments. “Let her alone,” cried the old doctor, querulously. “Go home, Madame. Monsieur de Camors, take her home.” She was going out, when the man, who had not before spoken, and who was sitting in the corner of his but as if stupefied, rose suddenly, seized the arm of Madame de Tecle, who, slightly terrified, turned round, for the gesture of the man was so violent as to seem menacing; his eyes, hard and dry, were fixed upon her, and he continued to press her arm with a contracted hand. “My friend!” she said, although rather uncertain. “Yes, your friend,” muttered the man with a hollow voice; “yes, your friend.” He could not continue, his mouth worked as if in a convulsion, suppressed weeping shook his frame; he then threw himself on his knees, and they saw a shower of tears force themselves through the hands clasped over his face. “Take her away, Monsieur,” said the old doctor. Camors gently pushed her out of the but and followed her. She took his arm and descended the rugged path which led to her home. It was a walk of twenty minutes from the wood. Half the distance was passed without interchanging a word. Once or twice, when the rays of the moon pierced through the clouds, Camors thought he saw her wipe away a tear with the end of her glove. He guided her cautiously in the darkness, although the light step of the young woman was little slower in the obscurity. Her springy step pressed noiselessly the fallen leaves--avoided without assistance the ruts and marshes, as if she had been endowed with a magical clairvoyance. When they reached a crossroad, and Camors seemed uncertain, she indicated the way by a slight pressure of the arm. Both were no doubt embarrassed by the long silence--it was Madame de Tecle who first broke it. “You have been very good this evening, Monsieur,” she said in a low and slightly agitated voice. “I love you so much!” said the young man. He pronounced these simple words in such a deep impassioned tone that Madame de Tecle trembled and stood still in the road. “Monsieur de Camors!” “What, Madame?” he demanded, in a strange tone.