Law himself did not so soon leave the outer air. He remained gazing out at the wild scene about him, at the rolling waves dashing on the shore, their crests whitening in the glare of the lightning, now approaching more closely. He harkened to the roll of the far-off thunder reënforced by the thunder of the waves upon the shore, and noted the sweep of the black forest about, of the black sky overhead, unlit save for one far-off, faint and feeble star.
It was a new world, this that lay around him, a new and savage world. If there were a world behind him, a world which once held sunlight and flowers, and love and hope—why then, it was a world lost and gone forever, and it was very well that this new world should be so different and so stern.
In the darkness John Law heard a voice, the voice of a woman in terror. Swiftly he stepped to the door of the rude lodge.
"Don't let them sing it again—never any more—that song."
"And what, Madam?"
"That one—'Tous les amants changent des maîtresses!'"
A moment later she whispered, "I am afraid."