“Here is our resting-place,” I said, “and our home for another day.”
My companion sank down with a sigh of utter fatigue.
“I am very tired,” she murmured, and drew off the shoes which I had slipped over her own.
“You are to sleep until you are quite rested,” I added. “We will remain here until evening. Then, after darkness falls and before the moon is up, we shall try to pierce the lines of the Republicans, which cannot be far away. For that you must be fresh, for we may need to be fleet.”
“But you?” she broke in quickly. “You are going to sleep too?”
“Undoubtedly,” I answered. “Only first I wish to assure myself that there is no house too near us. Good-night, mademoiselle.”
“Good-night, my friend,” she said, looking up at me with a little tremulous smile full of sorrow and weariness.
I stood a moment gazing down at her, longing to gather her in my arms, as one would a child, and caress and comfort her and hold her so until she fell asleep. But I managed to crush the longing back and turn away to the task which I had set myself.
The thicket crowned a low ridge which stretched between two gentle valleys. That we had left was, as I have said, innocent of human habitation. In the one to the north I fancied I could discern a group of houses, but they were so far away that we need apprehend no danger from them. To the westward, along the ridge, the thicket stretched as far as I could see.
Assured that our hiding-place was as safe as could be hoped for, I made my way back to it and walked softly to the dark figure on the grass. She was lying on her side, her head pillowed on her arm, and as I bent above her to make sure that she was protected from the chill of the night, I knew by her regular breathing that she slept. That sleep, so peaceful and trusting, consecrated the little glade—hallowed it, transformed it into such a temple that I dared lay me down only upon its margin, as though it were a holy place.