After a while his fury passed and he brought what reason he still possessed to bear upon his topic. It was Hermia, not De Folligny who was to blame—Hermia, the mad, the irrepressible, whom he had roused from her idyl in their happy valley and driven forth, tête baissée, upon this fool's errand—Hermia the tender, the tempestuous, the gentle, the precipitate, because of whose wild pranks he, John Markham, Dean of the College of Celibates, now stalked the highroads of France, the victim of his own philosophy.
Fool that he was! Thrice a fool for having stumbled to his fate, open-eyed. Last night she had laughed at him. To-day she mocked him still—with De Folligny.
His responsibilities oppressed him. He must find her and bring this mad pilgrimage to an end. To-morrow—to-night, perhaps he would put her on a train which would take her back to the people of her own kind. For he would go upon his way—his own way, which he was not sure could no longer be hers.
Emerging from the forest the road took a sharp turn away from the railroad tracks down hill and across a level plain. From the slight eminence upon which he stood, his road lay straight as a string before him, its length visible for almost a mile. Near its end he saw a dark object at the side of the road. A wagon? Or was it a motor? This was the way De Folligny had come, for there had been no turnings. He hurried on, his gaze on the distant object which grew nearer at every step. He was sure of one thing now, that the object had not moved—of two things—that it was not a motor. And yet there was something familiar about it. A wagon it was—a wagon with a roof, its end showing a window which caught the reflection of the sky—a house wagon, and near it, phantom-like against the dim foliage, a shaggy gray horse; to the right, the white smoke of a newly made fire rising among the trees. It was the roulotte of the Fabiani family and there in the woods was his friend of a night, Cleofonte, the incomparable.
He had almost made out the bulk of figures near the fire when from the hedge beside the road there came sounds of tinkling bells and a small wraith in red and blue rose like a Phoenix from the dust and confronted him with outstretched hands.
"You are late, Philidor. I've been waiting at least half an hour."
"You've been—what?"
"Waiting for you," coolly. "What kept you so long?"
He looked at her as though sure that one of them must have lost his sense.
"Where is De Folligny?" he growled.