The scream was repeated.
"There, don't you see something?" asked Christofel, pointing.
He pointed to a long streak that came surging over the water.
Othomar shook his head:
"No, that's impossible!" he said. "It's a fisher-lad."
"No, no, it's a rowing-boat!" cried Christofel.
They said nothing more, they ran along. The streak became plainer: a gig; the scream rang out again, piercingly.
"My God!... Valérie!" shouted Othomar.
She called back a few words; he only partly understood them. She was rowing not far from the shore towards the castle. Othomar took off his coat, his shoes, his socks, turned up his trousers, his shirt-sleeves.
"Take those with you," he cried to Christofel, "and go back to the castle, tell them...."