These children of passion went down into the mist.
He carried her along in his strong embrace, lifting her over the stones, her feet scarcely touching the ground; there was a wonderful sense of lightness, as if she had thrown off a heavy load. The fog was cold; it dampened her face, her hair. They reached the bottom of the ravine; the clouds around them moved, disclosing a little wooden house, which had been hidden in the mist. Now it stood out clearly—a bit of beautiful old architecture. Julie shrank away.
“It is a chapel; see, over the door, the cross. Take me home! take me home!”
He laughed mockingly.
“Nonsense, you must get over your religious superstition. The chapel will shelter us from the storm. Come, let us go in.”
“No! No!—not there!”
She fled, he followed her; the mist dropped like a curtain between them, growing thicker, thicker.
He heard her voice close to him.
“Here.”