“Poplar trees,” came Carola’s voice; and he thought, as he knew she thought, of the poplar trees in the garden off the Rue Deauville.
They drew rein; he had no light whatever, and her lantern had gone out.
“We must wait for the dawn,” said Carola again. “I cannot find the way. The dawn must be soon now, I think.”
He heard her dismount and sigh.
“This is grass—a field,” she continued. “We have left the road. How is the child?”
He turned back the woollen cloak that was damp with dew and delicately touched the small face in the hollow of his arm.
“Very cold,” he answered. “Ah!”
“What is it?” asked Carola.
“Her eyes are wide open and her mouth, but she does not move.”
“Dead?” asked Carola.