"Why, it's Giardino!" cried Hippolyte. And she stooped to caress the poor beast, with whom she had already become friends. "He was calling us. It's getting late."
The moon rose in the silence of the sky, slowly, preceded by a luminous wave which gradually covered the azure. All the sounds of the surrounding fields died away beneath this pacific light. And the unexpected cessation of every noise seemed almost supernatural to George, whom an inexplicable fright kept alert.
"Stop a moment," he said, holding Hippolyte back.
And he listened intently.
"What are you listening to?"
"It seemed to me——"
And both looked back in the direction of the barn, which the olive-trees concealed from view. But they heard nothing except the even and rocking rhythm of the sea in the curve of the little gulf. Over their heads a cricket clove the air in its flight with a grating sound like that of a diamond on a pane of glass.
"Don't you think the child is dead?" asked George, without dissimulating his emotion. "He stopped crying."
"That's true!" said Hippolyte. "And you believe he's dead?"
George did not reply. And they resumed their way back beneath the silvery olive-groves.