The day goes by, the noon, and the afternoon. The shadows reach out after her like claws. She crouches in the chimney-corner, staring at them through the long, dark hours. At midnight the woman glides stealthily in, glides stealthily about, peering, peering with wicked eyes. She fumbles among the bedding, opens the trunk, takes out its contents carefully. “Nothing, nothing!” she hisses between clenched teeth. She glides stealthily towards the child. Julie holds the cross in her hand. “What have you there, little wretch?” demands the woman, trying to wrest it from her. Julie will not give it up. With a sudden bound she escapes, runs out of the room, out of the house, down the path, away, away, through the fields. On, and on, she hurries, not daring to look back. Daylight comes, and still she walks on. After awhile she grows faint. She sits down by the roadside to rest. A peasant girl passes by with a basket on her arm. “Does this road go to the place where one finds the ships?” asked Julie. “Oui, mademoiselle.” When Julie is rested, she rises and walks on. Still on and on. The way is long. At last the houses are thick together. Beyond is the blue sea. There are the ships, many, with white sails. “Which one goes to America?” asks Julie of a man lounging about the wharf. He points to one from which floats a beautiful flag. While she looks, the great flag comes fluttering, fluttering down—fluttering, floating before her, floating about her, wrapping her in its folds; then back it flies, whizzing through the air, up, up, up, among the tall masts, so high above the water! Julie is dizzy, and tries to catch at the ropes. Lo! her hands are pinioned. She cannot move them. A huge serpent is coiled about her—a huge serpent striped its whole length with red and white. The coils are tightening, tightening. She cannot breathe. She struggles to be free. A flaming head swoops suddenly down. Two terrible eyes glare at her—two eyes—two glittering stars. [2] Good-morning (or good-day), my friend. [3] I am afraid. [4] Oh, give it to me! give it to me. IV. “Katrine,” said madame, “go and call Julie. Why, here it’s seven o’clock, and she not up yet! I never knew her to lie abed like this before. Tell her she must come down right away and dress the baby.” Katrine came back in a few minutes, looking frightened. “I calls von, dwo, dree dimes. She vill not hear. Den I goes oop der shtep und calls von more dime. She vill not ondershtand. She shtare mit de eyes vide—und see notting! Den she schream like murter.”