Naked, she dared not advance into the woods—scarcely dared linger where she was, yet found enough courage to creep out on a carpet of moss and lie flat under a young fir, listening and watching.
No more bubbles rose above the aspens; there was not a sound, not a movement in the hazel.
For an hour or more she lay there; then, with infinite caution, she slipped back into the stream, waded across, crept into the meadow, and sped like a scared fawn along the bank until she stood panting by the stone-rimmed pool again.
Sun and wind had dried her skin; she dressed rapidly, swung her basket to her head, and started swiftly for Sainte Lesse.
Before she came in sight of the White Doe Tavern, she could hear the negro muleteers singing down by the corral.[pg 316] Sticky Smith still squatted in the garden by the river-wall, smoking his pipe. Her father lay asleep in his chair, his wrinkled hands still clasping the fishing pole, the warm breeze blowing his white hair at the temples.
She disposed of the wash; then she and Sticky Smith gently aroused the crippled bell-master and aided him into the house.
The old peasant woman who cooked for the inn had soup ready. The noonday meal in Sainte Lesse had become an extremely simple affair.
"Monsieur Steek," said the girl carelessly, "did you ever, as a child, fly toy balloons?"
"Sure, Maryette. A old Eyetalian wop used to come 'round town selling them. He had a stick with about a hundred little balloons tied to it—red, blue, green, yellow—all kinds and colours. Whenever I had the price I bought one."
"Did it fly?"