A sob came shivering up to him; he started with a sense of his great selfishness. “Rise up, Madame,” he said; “rise up. Take my hand, and stand beside me. It has happened that those brought as near contagion as you are have escaped.” She did not answer. “And it may not be the smallpox,” added Luc, against his own deep conviction. This time she answered. “I know it is. We are infected, perhaps doomed. As for me, it is no matter; but you--your future?” Luc made no reply; darkness lay on his brain as well as before his eyes. He felt his strength, almost his life, being drawn from him by the chill and the damp; it seemed worse than the snows of Bohemia. He realized how weak he had been since his illness at Eger; how even the burden of a child and the cold of a night in one of his native fields was almost beyond his endurance. He turned towards the spot where Carola must be still seated. “You are cold, Madame? Take my cloak--I am warm enough.” “No--no!” she said sharply. “I have my own, and I have often slept out in an old thin shawl--I should be used to it.” “And I,” answered Luc sadly--“I who was a soldier.” He was unclasping his cloak with numb fingers when he heard her rise to her feet; she touched his shoulder. “I am warm,” she said. Her hand trembled down his arm, found his hand and held it. He let her clasp it between hers, which were, as she said, warm. The touch of her soft palms caused a wave of mingled anguish and pleasure to rise to his heart. She came closer; he felt her heavy cloak sweep his foot; the faint Eastern perfume he always associated with her crept into his nostrils; his head sunk slightly on his chest, and he shivered. She drew his cold hand to her bosom. He felt, with a quickening of all his senses, the stiff smoothness of her satin gown, the straining of her breast against the silk cords, and even the hasty beating of her heart. She raised his hand, and he felt her throat, her chin, and finally her lips. A soft and timid kiss was lightly pressed on his fingers--the kiss of a suppliant, of one who asks for mercy. Then she brought his slack hand down to her bosom again. “You are very cold, Monsieur,” she said; her voice was infinitely sad. Luc saw her as a humble peasant girl with black hair hanging about her shoulders and bare feet. The great lady had disappeared; he thought only of the girl she had described, keeping sheep in the fields and sleeping under the trees. His brain was numb, and fantasy dazed him. He put out his free hand and caught her shoulder; though he felt the rich velvet of her cloak, he still imagined her as the poor peasant orphan. She came closer; he felt her breath, and knew her face was very near his. She loosened his hand, and he raised it to her other shoulder. He felt velvet, hard embroidery, and the rise and fall of her breath shaking her frame under his delicate grasp. “I think the dawn is breaking,” he said. “You and I are strange company to watch the sun rise.”