“Yes, Antoine, until the spring.”
“Have you candles—many candles, Angelique?”
“There are many, my husband.”
“The ground is as iron; one cannot dig, and the water under the ice is cruel—is it not so, Angelique?”
“No axe could break the ground, and the water is cruel,” she said.
“You will see my face until the winter is gone, my wife.”
She bowed her head, but smoothed his hand meanwhile, and her throat was quivering.
He partly slept—his body slept, though his mind was feeling its way to wonderful things. But near the morning his eyes opened wide, and he said: “Someone calls out of the dark, Angelique.”
And she, with her hand on her heart, replied: “It is the cry of a dog, Antoine.”
“But there are footsteps at the door, my wife.”