They reached their destination.
Renaud tied his horse to a tree, and took Zinzara’s hand.
“Follow me,” he said.
The moon was rising. With the end of a stick, he pointed out to her, just above the surface of the water, the heads of the stakes, looming black among the stalks of thorn-broom and reeds and the broad, spreading leaves of the water-lily.
“Always step to the left of the stakes,” he said; “they mark the right-hand edge of the solid path just below the surface of the water.”
Renaud had taken off his shoes and stockings. She lifted her skirts and walked with bare legs, and he held her hand. They walked thus for some time. Her interest was aroused by her surroundings. The place pleased her.
The water was disturbed a little here and there. She stopped and watched.
“Turtles,” said he; and added: “Here is the cabin.”
The cabin stood in the midst of the bog, built on piles, as was the path leading to it. Reeds and a few tamarisks surrounded it, and made it invisible from almost every direction. On the gray, thatched roof, shaped like a hay-stack, the little cross gleamed in the moonlight, bent back as if the wind had tried to blow it down.
The back of the cabin was turned to the mistral. They entered. Renaud took a candle from his wallet and struck a match. The light danced upon the walls.