“I know. It is the White Rock, where King Ovi died.”
“Marie, turn your face to me. Your eyes are full of tears. Your heart is tender. Your tears are for the prisoner who has escaped—the hunted in the chase.”
She shuddered a little and added, “Wherever he is, that long dark finger on the Hill of Pains will find him out—the remorseless Semaphore.”
“No, madame, I am selfish; I weep for myself. Tell me truly, as—as if I were your own child—was there no cloud, no sudden darkness, out there, as we looked towards the Hill of Pains.”
“None, dear.”
“Then—then—madame, I suppose it was my tears that blinded me for the moment.”
“No doubt it was your tears.”
But each said in her heart that it was not tears; each said: “Let not this thing come, O God!” Presently, with a caress, the elder woman left the room; but the girl remained to watch that gloomy thing upon the Hill of Pains.
As she stood there, with her fingers clasped upon a letter she had drawn from her pocket, a voice from among the palms outside floated towards her.
“He escaped last night; the Semaphore shows that they have got upon his track. I suppose they’ll try to converge upon him before he gets to Pascal River. Once there he might have a chance of escape; but he’ll need a lot of luck, poor devil!”