The day was quite bright now; fields of emerald, skies of pale azure, trees of faint gold were about them as he raised his burden to her saddle. The purple velvet trailed over the wet sides of her white horse; he flung across his own holster the coarse striped mantle, and mounted. “These nuns,” she said, “are very good. They had, three years ago, when the plague was bad, a hundred people in their hospice.” Luc offered to take the mummer’s child from her, but she refused. They rode from the fields on to the flat, muddy grey road. The horses were weary, and Carola, using only one hand, rode awkwardly. They went slowly across a country that was wet, glimmering, and silent. Luc’s thoughts began to stir like waking birds, first shivering, then mounting into the circle of the sunlight. All disturbing pictures of the past vanished from his mind; he only saw the future, an ineffable blaze of glory. He spoke aloud, lifting his face to the fragrant early heavens. “Whatever happens, I will overcome,” he said. Carola looked at him, and seemed to shrink into herself. They neither of them spoke until they had crossed a river by a low bridge, and ridden up to the walls and outbuildings of an ancient abbey and convent. Luc dismounted and helped Carola from her horse. Between them they laid the little girl on the long grass beneath the wall. Luc fastened the horses to a staple that was there for that purpose; his hands were very cold and his whole body shivering. When he came back to the narrow door, he found Carola standing beside the great iron bell. Above her head an ash drooped over the wall; the hard scarlet fruit hung against the grey stone and mortar. She had removed her hat; through the fine black ringlets showed the long red diamonds, flame in crystal, that glittered in her ears. Under Luc’s black cloak, her dress gleamed rich, and soft, and bright. Her face was pallid, hollow, and expressionless. Luc stepped towards her. She thought he meant to ring, and moved aside; but he stopped before her, looking at her intently. She glanced up at that: her eyes were bloodshot, and the lids swollen. He saw that she must have been crying, silently, in the dark. She seemed frightened and very humble. She held herself flat against the wall, and the beaver she held dropped from her loosening fingers. Luc took off his hat. His face was serene and proud; his long locks of hazel-coloured hair, escaping from the black ribbon, blew over his forehead and shoulders; his cravat and the thick lace on his bosom stirred in this same breeze. The beautiful lines of his face showed fatigue but no sadness, and his eyes were clear and radiant. “What is your name?” he asked. “Clémence,” she answered. “Clémence!” “It is true--that was my name in Provence,” she murmured. “I would never have told you--why did you ask?” “Clémence,” he repeated. He stood with his hat in his hand as if he was in attendance on a great lady. “Why do you not ring?” she asked hoarsely.