“Bread, bread!” it mumbled, working its black jaws; and it made an aimless pick at Carinne’s skirt.
“There is for thee, then!” thundered Gusman; and he flapped his torch into the thing’s face. The animal vented a hideous cry and shuffled back into its hole, shedding sparks on its way as if it smouldered like an old rag.
“Oh, mon ami!” whispered Carinne, in a febrile voice—“better the den by the skulls than this!”
The deadman gave an acrid grin.
“À la bonne heure,” said he. “Doubtless hunger pinches. Come back, then; and I will open my wallet and thou shalt thy purse.”
* * * * * * *
Early in the afternoon—so far as in that rayless desolation one could judge it to be—there broke upon our eyes the flutter of an advancing light, upon our ears the quick secret patter of hurrying steps. These ran up to the very opening of our lair and stopped.
“Hide!” said the deadman’s voice, “I hear them call me to the search! Hide!” and, without another word, he retreated as he had come.
Carinne uttered a little shuddering “Oh!” She took my head between her hands and kissed my lips, the admirable child. Then we emerged from our den (the ghostliest glimmer reached us from some distant corner, where, no doubt, Gusman had left a light burning), and stole swiftly to the mound-foot. I felt about for the infant’s skull (the position of which I had intensely remarked), and in a moment found it and laid bare the aperture.
“Dive, little rabbit,” said I.