“I know,” answered Marcel, “but I was mistaken, that is all. I stand by Mademoiselle Fortin. What she says is right. If any man tries to break in here, we kill him. No more talk!”
The gang muttered; cursed; threatened; looked at the guns; and went off to their boat.
“It is murder that you will do,” one of them called out, “you are a murderess, you Mademoiselle Fortin! you cause the people to die of hunger!”
“Not I,” she answered; “that is as the good God pleases. No matter. The light shall burn.”
They heard the babble of the men as they stumbled down the hill; the grinding of the boat on the rocks as they shoved off; the rattle of the oars in the rowlocks. After that the island was as still as a graveyard.
Then Nataline sat down on the floor in the dark, and put her face in her hands, and cried. Marcel tried to comfort her. She took his hand and pushed it gently away from her waist.
“No, Marcel,” she said, “not now! Not that, please, Marcel! Come into the house. I want to talk with you.”
They went into the cold, dark kitchen, lit a candle and kindled a fire in the stove. Nataline busied herself with a score of things. She put away the poor little store of provisions, sent Marcel for a pail of water, made some tea, spread the table, and sat down opposite to him. For a time she kept her eyes turned away from him, while she talked about all sorts of things. Then she fell silent for a little, still not looking at him. She got up and moved about the room, arranged two or three packages on the shelves, shut the damper of the stove, glancing at Marcel’s back out of the corners of her eyes. Then she came back to her chair, pushed her cup aside, rested both elbows on the table and her chin in her hands, and looked Marcel square in the face with her clear brown eyes.
“My friend,” she said, “are you an honest man, un brave garcon?”
For an instant he could say nothing. He was so puzzled. “Why yes, Nataline,” he answered, “yes, surely—I hope.”