“And are not you a woman, most beautiful?”
“God forbid!” she said. “I am the little goatherd Ambrosio.”
He stood some moments, frowning. A scheme, daring and characteristic, was beginning to take shape in his brain.
“What is that clump of rags by the gallows?” he asked, without looking round.
“It is not rags; it is rope, Eugenio.”
He thought again.
“And when do they come to hang this rascal?” he said.
“It is always at dusk. O, dear mother!” she whimpered, for the young man had suddenly slipped between the branches, and was going swiftly and softly down the pit-side.
Already the basin of sand was filled with the shadows from the hills. Ducos approached the gibbet. The last of the birds remaining arose and dispersed, quarrelling with nothing so much as the sunlight which they encountered above.
“It is an abominable task,” said the aide-de-camp, looking up at the dangling bodies; “but—for the Emperor—always for the Emperor! That fellow, now, in the domino—it would make us appear of one build. And as for complexion, why, he at least would have no eyes for the travesty. Mon Dieu! I believe it is a Providence.”