“Oh, mother, sister,” queried Roland, addressing the two women, “in Heaven’s name, do you understand anything of what these two fools are saying?”
“Fools,” repeated the first peasant; “well, possibly. But it’s not the less true that Pierre Marey had his neck twisted just for looking over the wall. True, it was of a Saturday—the devil’s sabbath.”
“And they couldn’t straighten it out,” affirmed the second peasant, “so they had to bury him with his face turned round looking the other way.
“Oh!” exclaimed Sir John, “this is growing interesting. I’m very fond of ghost stories.”
“That’s more than sister Amélie is it seems,” cried Edouard.
“What do you mean?”
“Just see how pale she’s grown, brother Roland.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Sir John; “mademoiselle looks as if she were going to faint.”
“I? Not at all,” exclaimed Amélie, wiping the perspiration from her forehead; “only don’t you think it seems a little warm here, mother?”
“No,” answered Madame de Montrevel.