Within, the tent was lighted solely by a small aperture at the top, and the effect was rather of a murky twilight than of broad noonday. It was draped with cheap red cloth, and in the centre--directly under the opening in the top--was a rough bier constructed of bare boards, and on this lay a body only partially covered with a piece of coarse serge; images of the devil--cut out of black stuff--were sewed on the corners of this wretched pall. The visitors, the sight-seers, who had paid their half-crowns to enjoy this gruesome spectacle, moved slowly past it, making the circuit of the tent and finally passing out at the door by which they had entered. When the hunchback came in, he paused long enough to become accustomed to the swift transition from sunlight to shadow, and then he too proceeded to join the circle around the corpse. There were many comments made, the sight affected the spectators differently. The two servant-girls clung together, whispering hysterical confidences; the peasant youth stared open-mouthed, fright showing plainly in his eyes; the soldier looked down with brutal indifference; the old fishwife showed satisfaction, her wolf mouth was slightly opened by a grin that displayed three long yellow teeth--all she possessed; a red handkerchief was tied around her head and from below it hung her long gray locks. Her short petticoat and bodice revealed a withered, lean form, and her fingers were like talons. She feasted her eyes on the dead face, and then she squinted across the body at the man who stood like a statue opposite. He was young, with a sad, dark countenance and was poorly, even shabbily dressed. But it was none of these things that the old crone noted, it was the expression of grief and horror that seemed frozen on his features. He did not see her, he did not see the others passing by him--with more than one curious glance; he seemed like a man in a trance, deaf, blind, dumb, but yet gazing fixedly at the inanimate figure on the bier. It was the corpse of a young woman, who had been handsome; the features were still so, and her long black hair fell about her shoulders like a mourning pall. “_Dieu!_” said the fishwife, licking her lips, “what a white throat she had; ’twould have been a pity to hang her. See, there is a mark there on her arm where ’twas bound! Is she not pretty, Bossu?” The hunchback had approached the corpse, and at this appeal he nodded his head. “_Diable!_” ejaculated the soldier turning on the old crone, “’tis heresy to call a damned person pretty, Mère Tigrane.” Mère Tigrane leered at him with horrible intelligence. “No one is to think a heretic pretty but the dragoons, eh?” she said grinning. “_Dame!_ we know what you think, monsieur.” The man laughed brutally, and she edged up to him, whispering in his ear, her narrow eyes on the silent visitor opposite. The dragoon looked over too at her words, and broke out with an oath. “You are a witch, Mère Tigrane,” he said uneasily; “let me alone!”