"They belong in the snow—they have no business here," said Jack; "they always make me think of those pictures of Russia—the retreat of the Grand Army, you know."
"Wolves and ravens," said Lorraine, in a low voice; "I know why they come to us here in France—Monsieur Marche, did I not tell you that day in the carrefour?"
"Yes," he answered; "do you really think you are a prophetess?"
"Did you see wolves here?" asked Georges.
"Yes; before war was declared. I told Monsieur Marche—it is a legend of our country. He, of course, laughed at it. I also do not believe everything I am told—but—I don't know—I have alway believed that, ever since I was, oh, very, very small—like that." She held one small gloved hand about twelve inches from the floor of the cart.
"At such a height and such an age it is natural to believe anything," said Jack. "I, too, accepted many strange doctrines then."
"You are laughing again," said Lorraine.
So they passed through the forest, trying to be cheerful, even succeeding at times. But Georges' face grew paler every minute, and his smile was so painful that Lorraine could not bear it and turned her head away, her hand tightening on the box-rail alongside.
As they were about to turn out into the Morteyn road, where the forest ended, Jack suddenly checked the horse and rose to his feet.
"What is it?" asked Lorraine. "Oh, I see! Oh, look!"