"Now eat! The idea of a big girl like you being afraid in the dark!"
"No, it was not that, madame. Mon Dieu, no! I'm used to that. Indeed, I'm not afraid. It——"
"Then what on earth have you been crying about, child?"
"Oh, madame! it is because—because you are so good to me. Yes, that is it. I'm not used to that,—no!"
Sister Agnes must have been quite agitated by this frank and unexpected avowal, for she pressed the child to her with still greater fervor, kissing her time and again more affectionately, after which she immediately slipped into the religious rut again below the crucifix.
A single ray of moonlight from the high loophole in the wall fell athwart the sombre cell and rested caressingly upon her bowed head as she knelt and seemed to bless her.
When she had recovered her self-possession she resumed her seat by the side of Fouchette, who, meanwhile, had been making havoc with the provisions.
"Oh! I was afraid—dreadfully afraid—that night, forty years ago," she whispered. "It was in this same place. And when they left me I almost cried my eyes out—and screamed,—how I screamed! Yet no one came. The next morning I had bread and water. And the next night and day, too. Ah! Sainte Mère de Dieu! how I suffered!"
Fouchette shuddered.
"And I was a strong, healthy child, but wilful; yet the dark seemed terrible to me—because I was wicked."