Then I heard a cry, not loud, but full of entreaty and sorrow. I moved quickly toward it. In another white gleam I saw Justine with her arms about the figure, holding it back from the abyss. She said with incredible pleading:
"No, no, madame, not that! It is wicked—wicked."
I came and stood beside them.
The figure sank upon the ground and buried a pitiful face in the wet grass.
Justine leaned over her.
She sobbed as one whose harvest of the past is all tears. Nothing human could comfort her yet.
I think she did not know that I was there. Justine lifted her face to me, appealing.
I turned and stole silently away.