The nun closed the door, and looked at him with steady courtesy. Her face, her hands, and her serge robe were all faded and worn; the line of white that enclosed her face was vivid in contrast to her parched and withered skin; her eyes were inscrutable, her whole expression worldly and slightly amused. “You will remain our guest, Monsieur?” she said. “I have no right,” answered Luc. “I should have left before but that I feared to carry the infection.” “You did a reckless thing,” said the nun quietly. “The child died of the black smallpox. I have nursed many cases.” “And never been stricken yourself, sister?” asked Luc gently. “No.” “I may be as fortunate.” The alert grey eyes glanced slowly over his graceful person, his beautiful face. “You may, Monsieur de Vauvenargues. At least, you are in good hands here. The house of de Clapiers has always been generous to us. You do not remember the Great Plague? I worked with your father then in Aix.” Luc coloured and his eyes narrowed. “I do not like to stay, my sister.” She smiled. “You think we are afraid, perhaps? Madame la Comtesse knew better. And where would you go, Monsieur?” He was indeed at a loss. He shook his head, and her smile deepened. “If I stay, my sister, I must work. You have sick here?” “Yes, Monsieur.” “I can help you. I have learnt, in war, to do little services for the sick.” “If you wish, Monsieur. They are all very miserable, humble people.” Luc looked at her quickly, and the colour flushed deeper into his sensitive face. “I must tell you one thing, my sister. I have no right to your hospitality, as I said. I do not believe.” “Ah?” she said gravely. “I am a follower of M. de Voltaire.” “And we are followers of Christ,” answered the nun serenely, “and in His name we bid you welcome, whoever you are.” Luc bent his head. “May I remain here, in this cottage?” “If you wish. But the Abbess would desire you to have the guest-house, Monsieur.” “I would rather be here, my sister.” The nun smiled again. “The man is old, and has had the plague,” she answered; “that is your reason, I think. Very well; I will tell the Abbess. We have sent a messenger to Monsieur your father. And that is all I have to say, Monsieur.” Luc thanked her reverently. He was glad when she again left him, for her calm, expressionless presence oppressed him. He set his lips and went to the window, where his sight was bounded by the white sunny walls of the hospice; he longed to see a wide sweep of country, a distant horizon. The sawing ceased, and there was a sound of hammering in its place, as of nails being knocked in. Luc began pacing up and down the narrow room. He picked up his sword presently and strapped it on; as he drew the thong through the last buckle, Carola entered. He looked over his shoulder at her, moved his lips, but did not speak. She had not changed her gown, but she wore no jewellery, and her hair was drawn away from her face and fastened on her neck.