In the twinkling of an eye the baskets were repacked and safely stowed beneath an overhanging rock; every scrap of paper and crust of bread picked up and burned, under Soeur Séraphine’s watchful eye; then the whole party began the ascent, Gretli leading the way with Soeur Séraphine, whose slight figure was as active as that of her namesake, Atli bringing up the rear, carefully guiding and supporting Madame Madeleine. Between the two couples went the girls in a hubbub of delight, skipping, slipping, leaping, chattering French and English as they went.
“He is far more handsome than last year!” sighed Stephanie. “Regard his moustache, how it embellishes him! What king was that thou callest him, Patricia? Le roi Vi, n’est-ce pas?”
“No king at all! The Vikings were sea-rovers, pretty much pirates, I suppose.”
“Pirate? That is corsair?” asked Vivette, who was getting on nicely with her English. “My ancestor was a corsair of St. Malo. He captivated three British ships—”
“By his beauty?” asked Patricia. “You mean ‘captured,’ Vivi!”
“Cap-ture, capti-vate, is it not the same thing? A captive, is he not captivated? How then?”
“Catastrophe of a language!” murmured Stephanie, who detested English.
“Hop, Froggy!” said Patricia and Maria in one breath.
Seeing battle imminent, Honor broke in hastily, “Oh, look, girls! Regarde, Stephanie! The châlet! Race to it!”
No more words were spoken. Panting, breathless, the girls pressed on. Soon they overtook Gretli and Soeur Séraphine, and some would have passed them, but Patricia made an imperious gesture.