"Oh, talk not of the morning," she cried.
He seized her fingers, and when he kissed the hand it fluttered like a bird.
"I shall have my dreams," cried Madeleine, her face uplifted, and her eyes moistened. "And they may be so happy that I shall not wake. See! Yonder is my resting-place. The wattle-wall shall separate us. There my head will lie. Give me your sword."
She grasped the hilt, and thrust the blade through the trifling wall. Then she spoke with averted face: "When you are lying down to rest I shall tell you why I have done this."
They separated after a few tender words of commendation. The fire burnt down, and the north wind played roughly among the trees until the cabin hummed like a cave. Madame entered, as noiseless as a cat, and passed into her room. The rattling of her beads sounded at intervals, before sleep deadened the enmity of her mind.
"My hair is long," whispered Madeleine's sweet voice. "I am passing a coil through the hole in the wattles. Hold it, and if you hear disquieting sounds do not speak, but pull."
"I have it," he whispered, seizing the warm silk enviously.
"The holy angels watch over you," she murmured.
"And you. As for me, I am already protected by an angel."
"Angel?" she wondered.