"Mother!" called some one sharply. Jean recognized the voice, the command. The other's face went pale for a moment, while her eyes closed. He understood. The worst had come. In the minutes they had been sitting there, she had almost dared hope that Orlean would return, and that in some way—perhaps it would have to come from heaven—they could fly. But chances now were gone. His cohort had appeared. "Who is it out there?" she asked, and came toward where they sat. She saw him then, and regarded him coldly. Through her mind shot the fact that her father had waited three weeks for him, and had just left that morning. Her disappointment was keen. For a moment she was frightened. In truth she held a fearsome admiration for the man, and then she stiffened. She had come back to herself; to the fact that she had a reputation for being disagreeable. She turned to him, and said:
"What are you doing here?"
He answered her not. Her mother was trembling.
"Get out of this house!" she commanded, getting control of herself.
Baptiste was in a quandary. He recalled how he had seen her make her husband jump as if trying to get out of his skin when she was in her evil spasms.
"Did you hear!" she almost screamed.
"I am waiting for my wife," he replied then calmly.
"She is my sister!" she screamed again.
"I suppose I am aware of that."
"Then you cannot have her!"