He flung himself upon her and, dragging her away, in a burst of fierce passion:
“Come—let us fly—you first.”
But, suddenly, he stopped, distraught, overcome:
“No, I can’t do it—it’s too awful. Forgive me—Raymonde—that poor woman down there—Stay here. Beautrelet, don’t leave her.”
He darted along the slope that surrounds the farm, turned and followed it, at a run, till he came to the gate that opens on the plain.
Raymonde, whom Beautrelet had been unable to hold back, arrived almost as soon as he did; and Beautrelet, hiding behind the trees, saw, in the lonely walk that led from the farm to the gate, three men, of whom one, the tallest, went ahead, while the two others were holding by the arms a woman who tried to resist and who uttered moans of pain.
The daylight was beginning to fade. Nevertheless, Beautrelet recognized Holmlock Shears. The woman seemed of a certain age. Her livid features were set in a frame of white hair.
They all four came up.
They reached the gate. Shears opened one of the folding leaves.
Then Lupin strode forward and stood in front of him.