“I would rather be here, my sister.”
The nun smiled again.
“The man is old, and has had the plague,” she answered; “that is your reason, I think. Very well; I will tell the Abbess. We have sent a messenger to Monsieur your father. And that is all I have to say, Monsieur.”
Luc thanked her reverently. He was glad when she again left him, for her calm, expressionless presence oppressed him. He set his lips and went to the window, where his sight was bounded by the white sunny walls of the hospice; he longed to see a wide sweep of country, a distant horizon.
The sawing ceased, and there was a sound of hammering in its place, as of nails being knocked in. Luc began pacing up and down the narrow room. He picked up his sword presently and strapped it on; as he drew the thong through the last buckle, Carola entered. He looked over his shoulder at her, moved his lips, but did not speak.
She had not changed her gown, but she wore no jewellery, and her hair was drawn away from her face and fastened on her neck.
“I came to see the child,” she said. “I want this buried with her.”
She held out a narrow white hand on which lay a diamond ring with sapphire points.
“M. de Richelieu told me its history,” she continued—“the bribe, the wages, that you refused and that I took. This is the last of it.”
“You have a strange fancy,” said Luc.