"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."
"Nay, Antoine; it is the snow beating upon the window."
"There is the sound of wings close by—dost thou not hear them,
Angelique?"
"Wings—wings," she falteringly said: "it is the hot blast through the chimney; the night is cold, Antoine."
"The night is very cold," he said; and he trembled. . . "I hear, O my wife, I hear the voice of a little child . . . the voice is like thine, Angelique."
And she, not knowing what to reply, said softly: