"Yes," said Joan brusquely. "Yes. Don't think about it. Don't run and don't think. Only find the hole."
They stood beside it. No one was near them; no one called to them. Silently Caroline slid under the sharp prongs. Joan of Arc put her hands under her skirt a moment and a white ruffled petticoat slipped around her feet. She adjusted it over her dress and pulled herself with difficulty through. As she stood erect in the soiled, stained petticoat, Caroline saw her knees, tremble under it, and she drooped against the fence, white-cheeked.
"Don't faint," she said severely to Caroline.
With shaking hands she tied the petticoat under her dress again and they crouched through the underbrush to the outer walk. Caroline reached for her wheel and the two peered fearfully up and down the empty road.
"I can't—I can't," the girl moaned, "my dress is so black—they can see it from the hill. Oh, what shall I do? I thought I could, and I can't!"
The measured trot of a pair of horses sounded on the road. An empty station wagon came rapidly toward them; groom and driver regarded them curiously.
The girl straightened herself and raised her hand with a pretty, imperious gesture.
"One moment, please," she said, "but are you going to the village?"
"Yes, Miss," said the driver, "to the station. Was there anything—"
She opened a bag at her side and took out carelessly a small gold piece.