“I remember thy Fanchon that night—so small a child was she, with deep brown eyes, a cloud of hair that waved about her head, and a face that shone like spring. I have seen her but once since then, and yet thou sayest thy Fanchon has now her great hour, that she brings forth?”
“Yes. In the morning she cried out to me twice, for I am not easy of waking—shame to me—and said: ‘Gustave, thou shalt go for the priest over the hills, for my time is at hand, and I have seen the White Omen on the wall.’ The White Omen—you know, Monsieur?”
“What does such as she with the legend of the White Omen, Gustave?”
“Who can tell what is in the heart of a mother? Their eyes are not the eyes of such as we.”
“Neither the eyes of man nor priest—thou sayest well. How did she see it?”
“She was lying in a soft sleep, when something like a pain struck through her eyes, and she waked. There upon the wall over the shrine was the white arrow with the tuft of fire. It came and went three times, and then she called me.”
“What tale told the arrow to thy Fanchon, Gustave?”
“That for the child which cometh into the world a life must go from the world.”
“The world is wide and souls are many, Gustave.”
“Most true; but her heart was heavy, and it came upon her that the child might be spared and herself taken.”