“Dead,” she answered, in a tired voice. “And I have laid her under the wagon with my crucifix. I think she was a Hussite, but perhaps God will forgive her, for she was too young to know error.”
“Do you suppose God’s charity less than yours, Mademoiselle?” answered M. de Vauvenargues gently. “You sheltered a heretic child all day—will not God shelter her through all eternity?”
She looked at him strangely.
“I feel very weary,” she said; “the wolves sound nearer.”
The Marquis thought of the two dead mules and the woman’s corpse that Carola had not seen; he was stretching out his hand for his pistol when d’Espagnac lifted his head.
“Thank you, Monsieur,” he said, and his voice was sweet and sane; “I fear I incommode you and Mademoiselle.” He smiled and raised himself on one arm. “You must not stay for me. I am very well. Dying, I know—but very well.”
Carola came closer to him.
“I know the prayers of my church—shall I say them for you?”
He faintly shook his head.
“Thank you for your thought. But we are so far from churches.”