"Sh-h-h," warned her mother again.
"Yes, they are murderers," said old Pierre, "but this is a silly child to talk so. We have borne much silently. Can we not be a little patient now?"
"I hate them!" sobbed the girl, abandoning all caution. "They drove him away and we will see him no more,—my brother—Armand!"
"Hush, my daughter," her mother pleaded. "Listen! I heard a footstep. They are spying and have heard."
For a moment neither spoke and there was no sound but the girl's quick breaths as she tried to control herself. Then there was a slight rustling in the shrubbery and they waited in breathless suspense.
"I knew it," whispered Madame; "we are always watched. Now it has come."
Still they waited, fearfully. Another sound, and old Pierre rose, pushed his rustic chair from him and stood with a fine, soldierly air, waiting. His wife was trembling pitiably and Florette, her eyes wide with grief and terror, watched the dark bushes like a frightened animal.
Suddenly the leaves parted and they saw a strange disheveled figure. For a moment it paused, uncertain, then looked stealthily about and emerged into the open. The stranger was hatless and barefoot and his whole appearance was that of exhaustion and fright. When he spoke it was in a strange language and spasmodically as if he had been running hard.
"Leteur?" he asked, looking from one to the other; "the name—Leteur? I can't speak French," he added, somewhat bewildered and clutching an upright of the arbor.
"What do you wish here?" old Pierre demanded in French, never relaxing his military air.