“Joçint’s work,” answered Grégoire bitingly.
“The damned scoundrel,” muttered Hosmer, “where is he?”
“Don’ botha ’bout Joçint; he ain’t goin’ to set no mo’ mill afire,” saying which, he turned his horse and the two rode furiously away.
Melicent grasped Thérèse’s arm convulsively.
“What does he mean?” she asked in a frightened whisper.
“I—I don’t know,” Thérèse faltered. She had clasped her hands spasmodically together, at Grégoire’s words, trembling with horror of what must be their meaning.
“May be he arrested him,” suggested the girl.
“I hope so. Come; let’s go to bed: there’s no use staying out here in the cold and dark.”
Hosmer had left the sitting-room door open, and Thérèse entered. She approached Fanny’s door and knocked twice: not brusquely, but sufficiently loud to be heard from within, by any one who was awake. No answer came, and she went away, knowing that Fanny slept.
The unusual sound of the bell, ringing two hours past midnight—that very deadest hour of the night—had roused the whole plantation. On all sides squads of men and a few venturesome women were hurrying towards the fire; the dread of supernatural encounters overcome for the moment by such strong reality and by the confidence lent them in each other’s company.