“Mon Dieu, mon Dieu!” I cried—“if it is not Carinne, let me die!”
CHAPTER XIV.
THE QUARRIES OF MONT-ROUGE.
She turned, the dear figure. I heard her breath catch as she leaned forward and gazed at me. Her hair was all tumbled abroad; her sweet scared eyes looked out of a thicket of it like little frightened birds from a copse. She took a hurried step or two in my direction, then cried, “C’est un coup du ciel!” and threw up her hands and pressed them to her face.
I dropped my yearning arms. A needle of ice pierced my heart.
“A judgment of heaven?” I cried, sorrowfully.
The sound of my voice seemed like the very stroke of a thyrsus on her shoulders. She broke into an agitated walk—pacing to and fro in front of me—wringing her hands and clasping them thus to her temples. Her shadow fled before or after her like a coaxing child.
Suddenly, to my amazement, she darted upon me, and seized and shook me in a little fury of passion.
“Prends cela, prends cela, prends cela!” she cried; and then as suddenly she released me, and ran back to her ledge, and flung herself face-downwards thereon, sobbing as if her heart would break.
Shocked and astounded beyond measure, I followed and stood over her.
“Mademoiselle de Lâge,” I said, miserably—“of what am I guilty?”