“I think—dead.”
He moved his cramped arm from under his burden and laid her across his shoulder while he dismounted; out of the dark came Carola’s hand and touched his arm, then her other hand, and took the child from him.
“We must let the horses go,” he said. “It is raining. Perhaps we could find some shelter.”
Carola’s voice came faintly, as if it was a long way off.
“The child is dead. I cannot feel her heart at all. What soft hair she has!”
Luc heard the jingle of harness as the horses moved away. The rain fell with a cold sting on his bare hands, his blood was frozen, his limbs stiff; the darkness lay like a weight on his eyes.
“We must wait here for the light,” he said.
He heard Carola move.
“Yes, we will wait,” she answered. “Perhaps we had better have stayed in the tent—yet what chance had she there? Oh, my dear, my poor dear!” and he heard her kiss the little tight-rope dancer.
“Give me your hand,” he said; “we might find the trees.” He turned to where he thought she was, and presently felt her hand again, ungloved, in his. With his right hand flung before him, he discovered the long narrow trunks of the trees.