She touched up her horse; and so it seemed that they were about to part for ever, he journeying towards the dark gates of the town and his brilliant future, she towards her convent and her obscure end. So they would have parted had not a sudden sound checked them, made them pause, drawn them once more together.
It was the imploring, weak wail of a child rising out of the empty dusk. They both listened, and it was repeated.
“O God!” cried Carola, with sudden passion. “I have heard that cry in dreams!”
“Some child is lost,” said Luc.
“And in pain,” she added quickly.
He turned his horse’s head, and went back with her along the way he had come, across the worn grass of the fair ground, which was strewn with confetti, torn paper, and ragged muslin roses.
The crying continued. It sounded near, yet very feeble; it could scarcely rise above the sound of the horses’ hoofs or the jingle of the harness.
The twilight seemed to have descended very rapidly; it was now almost dark, but the clouds were breaking above a rising moon, and the last glow of daylight was mingled with a cold, unearthly radiance. Luc felt chilly even beneath his riding mantle; the memory of the march from Prague seemed to linger in the faintly bitter air.
Carola paused and looked over her shoulder at the man, who was a little behind her.
“Stop,” she said. “You had better ride home, Monsieur.”