Again the grove was in splendour at the close of the day, and again Madame Labroquerie met her guest with a grating word of greeting and her bitter smile; and again the laggard slept upon the scented couch and had his dreams; and his dreams that night were not of power, nor of duty, nor of his harassed friends beside Couchicing; but of shaded bowers, and green valleys, and love in life, and Madeleine. And once the girl cried out in her sleep, but neither her mother nor her lover overheard her unconscious utterance, "I cannot let you go." But during the day which followed Geoffrey's conscience awoke and reproached him for this love-in-idleness, and as the evening of that day drew near his higher self conquered. Lying at Madeleine's feet, he told her with averted face that on the morrow he must depart; and she merely sighed very softly and made no answer, but longed in her heart that the morrow might never come. Once again they returned to the grove, where Madame curtsied as before, and muttered to her guest: "You are welcome, sir. For the third time I bid you welcome to my poor home." Her meaning was unmistakable, and the young man flushed hotly as he bowed in reply and thanked her for her words. More he would have said, but Madeleine touched him lightly and motioned him to keep silent. He turned and followed her to the hut, and they partook of food, and afterwards sat together and talked on, and yearned for one another; and in the meantime darkness fell, and the fire outside, which was maintained at night to keep wild beasts at bay, surrounded the cabin with a roseate glow. Alone through that twilight Madame walked, muttering as was her wont, and started in superstitious terror when she saw a tall figure standing erect, spectral, beside the leaping fire. A few more steps and the Frenchwoman recognised a priest. She hurried forward, and a minute later genuflected to kiss the cloak of that man of blood, the Abbé La Salle. In wonder the priest gave her the blessing which she sought and went on to question her. Eagerly Madame responded, telling him her name and circumstance, explaining her position, and mentioning her longing to escape from that lonely spot. Her desires were, like herself, made up of selfishness. She did not question the priest concerning the son who had been driven out by her bitter tongue to join the commandant's little force; nor did she mention Roussilac's name, because--so entirely isolated was that shelter in the grove--she was not even aware that the man who ruled the land was indeed her nephew. But La Salle waived her petulant inquiries aside, and asked whether any Englishman had lately been known to pass that way. Then Madame shortly acquainted him with the coming of Viner. "Bring me here something to eat," said the priest wearily, when he had obtained the information which he sought. "Afterwards I will rest me by this fire."