“Come,” I said, a sudden impatience of the place seizing me, “we must be getting forward. The moon will light our way.” And then my heart fell suddenly; for I remembered her torn and ragged shoes. “I could not get you shoes,” I said.
“No one can accomplish the impossible. It was foolish of me to ask for them.”
“I will get them,” I said; “but until then I shall have to carry you.”
“Nonsense!” she protested. “You will do nothing of the kind. With that light in the sky I can choose my steps. Besides, my shoes are stronger than you imagine.”
“The road is not far off,” I said. “Once we have gained that, you may perhaps be able to walk alone. But I shall not permit you to torture yourself by limping over this rough ground.”
She was looking at me with defiance in her eyes, and I saw that I should have to use finesse.
“Please do not forget,” I reminded her, “the selfishness of my disposition. One step upon a sharp stone and you will be so lamed that I shall have to carry you, not a matter of a few hundred yards, but all the way to the Bocage. My back aches at thought of it; and so I propose for myself the lighter task, in order to escape the other.”
Her look changed from defiance to amusement.
“You have a wit truly ingenious, M. de Tavernay,” she said. “I yield to it—for the moment.”
“I knew that reason would convince you,” I replied, trembling at the thought that I should have her in my arms again. “Come, there is still a little wine in the bottles. I propose a toast—the toast we drank last night;” and I arose and bared my head. “God and the King!”