He put his flask to Sidonie’s lips and soon afterward she opened her eyes. Then Jean eagerly began to question her.
“He is accused of murder. Murder, Jean! But he is innocent.”
“Who accuses him?”
“Mon Dieu!” she cried, “he accuses himself.”
“What!” thundered Jean, picking up his coat.
“He will save him,” Sidonie joyously murmured.
“Get up and follow me,” he demanded, tersely.
With an effort she struggled to her feet, and he led her toward the village. At the entrance to the little street stood a picturesque cottage ingeniously made of twisted roots. It was Jean’s own handiwork, and he lived very happily in this snug habitation.
Before he entered the house Sidonie said: “You are going to St. Benoit, are you not?”
“Yes,” he replied.