“She would bid me go,” smiled Luc. “And we make much out of nothing—maybe it is not the plague.”
He took her hand gently from his reins and rode across to the tent.
By the time he had dismounted and fastened his horse to a little broken elm tree she was on foot also and beside him, leading her horse.
“If you were to ride into the town, could you not find some one who would come?” she asked.
“Many,” he answered; “but why should I? This has come my way. Do you ride on, Madame.”
“O God!” cried Carola desperately, “supposing it is the plague?”
Luc lifted the tent flap and entered. The air was heavy and foul; it was completely dark. Luc stepped cautiously; he could hear nothing.
He began to think Carola had been mistaken, and that the tent was empty, when she appeared behind him with the lantern from her saddle, lit, in her hand. The beautiful beams disclosed the sagging canvas, the tipping centre pole, a confusion of articles, clothes, cooking utensils, stools, and paper hats and crowns cast over the ground.
Carola held the lantern higher.
In one corner a child lay along a pile of garments, staring at the light with glazed eyes; her face was white and disfigured with purple stains like bruises, her lips were covered with blood. Seeing these two looking at her, she began to wail incoherently.