‘Rénée, Rénée,’ called a woman’s voice, ‘thou art too rash, dear child. May not that light betray us after all?’
‘Oh, no, mother! No one comes here now; we are safe, quite safe. And see where Tutu creeps forward to the blaze! Thou art cold, my poor Tutu? Then rest thee, none will harm thee here.’
A dormouse lifted its beadlike eyes to the speaker’s face, as if well understanding that it was loved and safe. It was a sort of friend to these poor refugees, here in their mountain hiding-place, a creature even more weak and helpless than themselves.
Again the woman’s voice was heard.
‘Dear child, be not stubborn. Have we endured so much only to perish now for lack of a little further patience? A fire even by daylight is rash, at night its glow is almost certain to be seen.’
The girl she addressed stood silent for a moment, the flicker of the fire fell on her slender figure and on the graceful lines of her head and throat. Then she stooped and flung earth upon the flame, treading out the scarcely kindled heap, and scattering the fir-cones till their brightened edges died into little rims and coils of grey.