“We are going to bury her.”
“You shall not bury her! You shall not take her away,” cries Julie.
They thrust her back with rough hands. They will not let her follow. The woman locks her in. She is left alone, alone.
The day goes by, the noon, and the afternoon. The shadows reach out after her like claws. She crouches in the chimney-corner, staring at them through the long, dark hours.
At midnight the woman glides stealthily in, glides stealthily about, peering, peering with wicked eyes. She fumbles among the bedding, opens the trunk, takes out its contents carefully.
“Nothing, nothing!” she hisses between clenched teeth.
She glides stealthily towards the child. Julie holds the cross in her hand.
“What have you there, little wretch?” demands the woman, trying to wrest it from her.
Julie will not give it up. With a sudden bound she escapes, runs out of the room, out of the house, down the path, away, away, through the fields. On, and on, she hurries, not daring to look back. Daylight comes, and still she walks on. After awhile she grows faint. She sits down by the roadside to rest. A peasant girl passes by with a basket on her arm.