“Can it be he?”
Continuing to listen she hears the stroke of oars. It cannot be the boat she has seen rowing off above? That must now be far away, while this is near—in the bye-water just below her. But can it be the priest who is in it?
Yes, it is he; as she discovers, after stepping outside, to the place he so late occupied, and looking over the cliff’s edge. For then she had a view of his face, lit up by a lucifer match—itself looking like that of Lucifer!
What can he be doing down there? Why examining those things, he already knows all about, as she herself?
She would call down to him, and inquire. But possibly better not? He may be engaged upon some matter calling for secrecy, as he often is. Other eyes besides hers may be near, and her voice might draw them on him. She will wait for his coming up.
And wait she does, at the boat’s dock, on the top step of the stair; there receiving him as he returns from his short, but still unexplained, excursion.
“What is it?” she asks, soon as he has mounted up to her, “Quelque chose à tort?”
“More than that. A veritable danger!”
“Comment? Explain!”
“There’s a hound upon our track! One of sharpest scent.”