She shook her gnarled, bony fists. And she continued:
"Oh, how I hate you! Fifteen years of hatred! But the cross will avenge me . . . . I shall string you up on it myself . . . . The cross is ready . . . you'll see . . . the cross is ready for you! . . ."
She walked away slowly, holding herself erect under the threat of the revolver.
"Don't kill her, mother, will you?" whispered François, suspecting the contest in his mother's mind.
Véronique seemed to wake from a dream:
"No, no," she replied, "don't be afraid . . . . And yet perhaps I ought to . . ."
"Oh, please let her be, mother, and let us go away."
She lifted him in her arms, even before the woman was out of sight, pressed him to her and carried him to the cell as though he weighed no more than a little child.
"Mother, mother," he said.
"Yes, darling, your own mother; and no one shall take you from me again, that I swear to you."