And to both of them came the thought of the child she had borne over the Bohemian mountains. “That was younger,” she murmured. And in the strangeness of their being alone again with the dying, isolated alone again from the world, they looked at each other in silence. “What shall I do?” whispered Carola. “We will go to your convent. I think the moon will hold. There is no other way, and perhaps we may prevent the plague spreading to Aix. All this”--he looked round the tent--“must be burnt.” He rose from his knees, lifting the child, who cried bitterly when her aching body was moved. “We will go at once,” he said, with his simple air of decision. “Some one might find us here.” Two slender figures in their long dark cloaks, they left the tent--he carrying the child, she the lantern. When they breathed the clear air again both gave a deep sigh of relief. It was now dark, but the moon was abroad though swimming behind a feeble veil of clouds; the cold was insidious, keen, mysterious; the grey and silver sky seemed very remote, the trees still as a painted fantasy; the little wind had utterly died away. Luc’s face was a pale oval above the mantle that wrapt his burden, which he carried easily enough for all his slight look. Carola glanced at him and bit her lower lip. “It is going to be a cold night,” she said. She went back into the tent and brought out a woollen cloak, a tawdry striped thing of blue and yellow. “Wrap her in this, Monsieur.” Luc gave up the child, who coughed and muttered deliriously; between them they rolled her in the player’s mantle. Luc wiped her face and her lips with his stained handkerchief. Both were silent now; like creatures in the grip of fate, they seemed to act almost mechanically. Leaving the child under the trees, they collected the paper roses, the card-board hats and crowns, and piling them together in front of the tent, lit them from a ragged brand of paper turned into a torch by the lantern flame. The first attempts were fruitless, but presently the muslin began to flare and the fire rose up strong and clear. Luc and Carola stepped back; the ragged edges of the tent caught; in a few moments a fantastic bonfire lit the dark and lonely field, and illuminated the steadfast faces of the man and woman who watched their work. When the flames were sweeping untroubled over the infected spot, the two, still without a word, turned to their horses. When they had unfastened them, Luc spoke. “Can you lift her up if I mount?” he asked. “I will try.” He carried the child to his horse’s side, then gave her to Carola as he sprang into the saddle; then as he stooped to her, Carola felt his bare cold hands touch hers as the little girl, not without difficulty, was lifted on to his saddle-bow. “You know the way; you must lead,” he said.