“That is all very well for the whites; and for us, when the whites have their eyes upon us,” said Vincent. “But we are not prisoners; and there is not a prisoner abroad to-night. Come—only as far as the mangroves! We shall not be missed: and if we should be, we can be within the gate in two minutes.”
“I dare not,” said Aimée, with a longing look, however, at the pearly sands, and the creaming waves that now overspread them, now lapsed in the gleam of the moon. The dark shadow of the mangroves lay but a little way on. It was true that two minutes would reach them; but she still said, “I dare not.”
“Who is there?” cried the sentinel, in his march past the gate.
“No strangers, Claude. Any news on your watch?”
“None, Mademoiselle.”
“All quiet over towards Saint Marc?” inquired Vincent.
“All quiet there, General; and everywhere else when the last reports came round, ten minutes ago.”
“Very well: pass on, good Claude. Come, come!” he said to Aimée; “who knows when we may have a moonlight hour again!”
He would not bide another refusal, but, by gentle violence, drew her out upon the beach, telling the sentinel, as they passed between him and the water, that if they were inquired for, he might call: they should be within hearing. Claude touched his cap, showed his white teeth in a broad smile, and did not object.
Once among the mangroves, Aimée could not repent. Their arched branches, descending into the water, trembled with every wave that gushed in among them, and stirred the mild air. The moonlight quivered on their dark green leaves, and on the transparent pool which lay among their roots.