"You are welcome, sir," she said in English. "We are poor and lonely folk left to perish in the wilderness. My husband was an atheist, a philosopher, and every man's hand was against him. He brought his wife and family to the New World that he might study in peace and learn somewhat of Nature's secrets. Last summer he was taken, babbling of the work of his misspent life, careless of our farewells, heedless of the state in which he left us. Philosophy is of a truth the devil's work, inasmuch as it hardens the heart of man, loses him his God, and wraps its slave in selfishness." The old woman signed herself slowly; then suddenly pushed beside the traveller and snatched at her daughter's arm. "Cross yourself, girl! Infidel, cross yourself!" she cried. "Mother!" Madeleine shrank back, appealing with her lovely eyes. "Lutheran!" screamed the little woman. "Make the holy sign, and so strive to save your wicked soul from the pit of destruction wherein your father lies." "My faith is fixed," murmured the girl. "Ah, ah!" she panted. Madame Labroquerie struck the girl thrice upon her fair cheek, staining the white skin red as a roseleaf. "Madame, forbear!" Viner stood between them, his blood hot with shame. "This is no sight for a stranger and a man to witness." The little woman smiled at him and abandoned her daughter, who bent over the fire to hide her crimson face. "You are English, sir. Your brave countrymen yield to none in their respect for a woman, when she be young and fair to see. Let her be old, they shall call her witch and fling her in the nearest pond. There be young witches, good sir, better able to seduce the soul of man than the old, though they keep neither cat nor toad, nor ride at night across the face of the moon." Madame Labroquerie made him a low courtesy, and walked noiselessly to the gate of the palisade. "That so lovely a daughter should be cursed with such a mother!" muttered the youth as he watched her go. He came to the side of Madeleine, and found her crying. "My mother has a strange temper. She has suffered much," the girl sighed. There was a pause, one of those rare intervals when ears are opened to the music of the spheres, and souls may meet. "You are not happy here," he said. Her glorious eyes were two blossoms heavy with dew. "Friend!" She put out one hand, groping for something to hold. "I am miserable." They stood together, hand in hand. "She struck you." There was no answer. Divine pity dropped upon his heart, sweet and dangerous pity out of heaven. "Stay a little," she whispered. "For the sake of your religion, stay. If for a day only, stay. Stay, for a woman's sake." It was dark in the grove outside the circle of the fire. He drew at her fingers. He bent his head suddenly and breathed upon them. She placed her other hand--a cold little hand--upon his.