"I don't care!" Monet flung out, passionately. "I'm not afraid to die … not in the open."
"And you haven't your violin," Fred put in, gently.
"I never want to play again—after last night. … It was horrible … horrible… 'God rest you, merry gentlemen!' What could have possessed them?"
"Come, now!… You'll feel better to-morrow… And I promise you on the first clear day we'll make it… The first morning we wake up and find a cloudless sky."
Fred moved forward, urging Monet to follow. The youth gave a little shiver and suffered Fred's guidance.
"If I go back now," he said, sadly, "it will be forever. I shall never leave."
Fred turned about and gave him a slight shake. "Nonsense! Last night made you morbid. Harrison ought to have known better. This is no place for Christmas! One day should be always like another."
Monet shook his head. "While they were sing … something passed … I can't describe it. But I grew cold all over … I knew at once that… Oh, well! what's the use? You do not understand!"
He flung his hands up in a gesture of despair.
Fred looked up at the sky. It had grown ominously black. "We'd better speed up," he said, significantly.