Luc lifted the tent flap and entered. The air was heavy and foul; it was completely dark. Luc stepped cautiously; he could hear nothing. He began to think Carola had been mistaken, and that the tent was empty, when she appeared behind him with the lantern from her saddle, lit, in her hand. The beautiful beams disclosed the sagging canvas, the tipping centre pole, a confusion of articles, clothes, cooking utensils, stools, and paper hats and crowns cast over the ground. Carola held the lantern higher. In one corner a child lay along a pile of garments, staring at the light with glazed eyes; her face was white and disfigured with purple stains like bruises, her lips were covered with blood. Seeing these two looking at her, she began to wail incoherently. Both Luc and Carola recognized her by her apple-green bodice and red and white skirts: she was the little dancer on the tight-rope at the fête. Luc made a step forward, but Carola caught his arm. “It _is_ the smallpox!” she whispered. “What are we going to do?” Luc looked at her. “You should not be here,” he said. The child began to talk in some kind of patois. “She is saying her prayers,” said Luc, who knew the dialect of the district. He shook his arm free from Carola, went to the humble bed, and took the small, cold, heavy hand of the sick child in his. “What is the matter, eh?” he asked, in a tone of great tenderness. “You are not alone now.” “You have done a mad thing,” said Carola, in a quivering voice. “You cannot return to Aix now.” He lifted his calm, beautiful face, round which the soft locks of hazel hair had loosened. “No,” he said, very gravely--“not until I know if this is the smallpox or not.” He put his arm round the child, and, taking his laced handkerchief from his pocket, wiped the blood from the sore lips. The little creature drooped her swollen face against the silk muslin and lace on his bosom. Carola set the lantern on a stool and looked round the tent. “Here is nothing,” she said. “What can we do.” Luc looked up. “Your convent, Madame. You say they would take in the sick?” “Yes--that is our only chance to save the child.” “And to avoid Aix,” added the Marquis quietly. “How far is this convent?” “Twenty miles, perhaps.” She came to the other side of the couch and knelt down. “Give _me_ the child,” she said passionately. “You do not know what you are doing--what it means. For God’s sake----!” “Hush,” answered Luc gently. “I know very well--hush.” The little girl lay in a stupor in his arms; as the blood came to her mouth he wiped it away. His face was utterly pale, but serene; he was thinking of Clémence and the beggar on the Paris quay. Carola looked at him, and controlled herself with an effort. “You sacrifice so much,” she said, in a very low voice; “I nothing. You were wrong not to let me undertake this.” “Could you have carried her?” he asked, with a little smile.