He turned to Carola beside him; since they started she had not spoken to him. “It must be near the dawn,” he said. “I do not know,” she answered, and added, after a little, “Are we not off the road? I think we have lost the way.” The moon was setting. Luc had been dwelling so in his thoughts that he had not noticed through what growing blackness they were riding. A wind was up, and they could hear it shaking some trees near with a deep rustling sound. “Poplar trees,” came Carola’s voice; and he thought, as he knew she thought, of the poplar trees in the garden off the Rue Deauville. They drew rein; he had no light whatever, and her lantern had gone out. “We must wait for the dawn,” said Carola again. “I cannot find the way. The dawn must be soon now, I think.” He heard her dismount and sigh. “This is grass--a field,” she continued. “We have left the road. How is the child?” He turned back the woollen cloak that was damp with dew and delicately touched the small face in the hollow of his arm. “Very cold,” he answered. “Ah!” “What is it?” asked Carola. “Her eyes are wide open and her mouth, but she does not move.” “Dead?” asked Carola. “I think--dead.” He moved his cramped arm from under his burden and laid her across his shoulder while he dismounted; out of the dark came Carola’s hand and touched his arm, then her other hand, and took the child from him. “We must let the horses go,” he said. “It is raining. Perhaps we could find some shelter.” Carola’s voice came faintly, as if it was a long way off. “The child is dead. I cannot feel her heart at all. What soft hair she has!” Luc heard the jingle of harness as the horses moved away. The rain fell with a cold sting on his bare hands, his blood was frozen, his limbs stiff; the darkness lay like a weight on his eyes. “We must wait here for the light,” he said. He heard Carola move. “Yes, we will wait,” she answered. “Perhaps we had better have stayed in the tent--yet what chance had she there? Oh, my dear, my poor dear!” and he heard her kiss the little tight-rope dancer. “Give me your hand,” he said; “we might find the trees.” He turned to where he thought she was, and presently felt her hand again, ungloved, in his. With his right hand flung before him, he discovered the long narrow trunks of the trees. “Here!” he called to his companion. She withdrew her hand from his; he guessed that she was still carrying the child. There was a little pause, then he heard her cast herself on the ground. “O God, believe that I am tired, tired!” she cried out.