They ascended the now deserted garden on the hillside till they came to the ruined tower which was grey with age when Roman legions first swept in triumph over the country of the barbarians of Gaul. A chill wind set the pines and the olives whispering mournfully together. The windowless tower brooded over its memories of the past, like an aged seer blind with years. The moonlight touched it tentatively as though it feared to disturb its dreaming.
It was a perfect stage scene for a secret meeting of conspirators. In the daylight, the tower was ugly with its rubble of fallen stones—unkempt like a ragged tramp—but in the moonlight there was a glamour of ages in its mournful brooding. Elaine was right to make her sketch at night-time. Rivière placed the campstool for her, and watched her in silence as she plied her pencil with swift, decisive lines.
With lithe, catlike softness, the youth Crau had followed them up the hillside, padding noiselessly in the shadows of the pines and olives. Crouching behind a tree, he felt in his breast-pocket and drew out a small package which he quietly unwrapped from its foldings. Then he waited his moment with every muscle tensed for action.
The night wind was chill. Rivière started to pace up and down a few steps away from Elaine. He approached nearer to the tree behind which Crau was crouching in shadow.
The lithe, wiry figure of the young Provençal sprang out upon him.
"Now you'll pay me what you owe!" he cried out in Provençal. "You cursed pig of an Englishman!"
Rivière did not understand the words, but the menace in the voice left no doubt as to the meaning. And the voice brought back to him the narrow ruelle at Arles where he had defended Elaine from the insult of the half-drunken peasant.
He was about to step forward to grapple with him, when a warning cry from Elaine stopped him for one crucial instant.
"Look out! There's something in his hand!" she called, and rushed impetuously forward to make her warning clear.
As she came within range, Crau raised his arm to throw his vitriol into Rivière's face, but in a fraction of a second a sudden thought changed the direction of his aim.