“Some child is lost,” said Luc. “And in pain,” she added quickly. He turned his horse’s head, and went back with her along the way he had come, across the worn grass of the fair ground, which was strewn with confetti, torn paper, and ragged muslin roses. The crying continued. It sounded near, yet very feeble; it could scarcely rise above the sound of the horses’ hoofs or the jingle of the harness. The twilight seemed to have descended very rapidly; it was now almost dark, but the clouds were breaking above a rising moon, and the last glow of daylight was mingled with a cold, unearthly radiance. Luc felt chilly even beneath his riding mantle; the memory of the march from Prague seemed to linger in the faintly bitter air. Carola paused and looked over her shoulder at the man, who was a little behind her. “Stop,” she said. “You had better ride home, Monsieur.” “What do you mean?” “Have you not heard about the plague?” “The plague?” “The smallpox,” she said intensely. “They say it will be bad in Provence this winter. They wish to keep it from the towns. I was told, at my inn, that they suspected it among the players, and had ordered them away suddenly.” “Well?” questioned Luc keenly. Carola pointed her whip towards the corner of the field where the solitary tent stood. “The crying comes from there,” she said. “They have left somebody behind.” “Ah!” cried Luc, “some one infected--some one ill!” “I think so--at least it is possible.” Luc had heard of such things often enough. The smallpox was the dread and the scourge of the country; his father had earned recognition from the Court by his heroic fight with an epidemic in Aix many years ago. Luc had heard him speak of how the sick and dying had been cast out by their own kin. “I will see if there is anyone abandoned in the tent,” he said. Carola laid her hand on his bridle. “No,” she cried, with energy. “Return home, Monsieur. You have others to think of--remember, reflect. You must not risk it.” Luc smiled. “Am I to watch you go--and then ride away?” “Ah,” she answered, “what does it matter about me? There is a _maison de Dieu_ at my convent; the nuns would take in the sick.” “Madame, simply because there may be some danger, I cannot leave you.” “You have never had the smallpox?” “No.” “Then,” she said, in great agitation, “you must not come. Think of Mademoiselle de Séguy.” “She would bid me go,” smiled Luc. “And we make much out of nothing--maybe it is not the plague.” He took her hand gently from his reins and rode across to the tent. By the time he had dismounted and fastened his horse to a little broken elm tree she was on foot also and beside him, leading her horse. “If you were to ride into the town, could you not find some one who would come?” she asked. “Many,” he answered; “but why should I? This has come my way. Do you ride on, Madame.” “O God!” cried Carola desperately, “supposing it is the plague?”