One evening as the setting sun gilded the lichens on the rough Celtic rocks, there traveled toward the thicket a woman and a man,—the latter carrying a child in his arms. They journeyed laboriously, as tho greatly fatigued, especially the woman, who with the greatest difficulty lifted her small feet, clad in rude sabots, which were in keeping with her peasant's dress and the white coif covering her blond hair. At last, heaving a sigh, she sank upon the ground. The man came to her saying warningly and gently:
"Mademoiselle, it will soon be night and if we do not hurry, we shall have to sleep here with the child. Can you not make an effort?"
"The sabots have bruised my feet," she complained, her beautiful young face full of pain. "But no matter, I shall start again."
She tried to walk, but failed, saying:
"O I cannot, I cannot! What will become of us?"
Louis Pierre did not dare to insist further. He placed the sleeping child on the ground and wiped his wet forehead with a nervous hand. Suddenly, the barking of a dog came to them, followed by the appearance of a great mastiff, springing through the thicket. The child awoke and began to cry, and the woman,—girl, rather—half rose. Then the approaching tread of a horse was heard and a splendid voice called to the dog:
"Here Silvano!" and the horseman sprang lightly to earth. Turning to the travelers, he said:
"A good and holy evening to you."
He was a tall, young, finely proportioned peasant of beautiful beardless face and abundant hair.
"Are you the people we await at Picmort?"