The church-bell began to toll for Mass. From her window she could see the village. The hills opposite were black, hard as cast-iron against the whitening sky. A halo already stood over the place where the sun would mount, and a cloud high up was shot with gold. Noémi was shivering with cold. She rose and paced the chamber, but ever and anon returned to the window to look out. The white light was changing to amber, the sun was at hand.
Roger was carolling merrily, and smoke issued from the guard-chamber. The men were lighting a fire whereat to warm themselves, and perhaps do some cooking for their morning meal. In the cold meadow by the water-side, where lay a whiteness like a snow, a peasant was visible, turning the glebe with his plough fastened to the horns of a pair of oxen.
She paced her chamber faster. She could not overcome the shivering that pervaded her. The cold had entered the marrow of her bones, and with it her heart turned sick. Where was Jean? Was he in the oubliette? Had he been cast down on the body of his dying father?
Suddenly Noémi stood still. Painted on the rock opposite the window was a saffron spot of light. The sun was risen.
"It is all over!" she said, and went to the door.
There she uttered a cry—a cry of joy and release.
Along the surface of the rock ran Jean towards her. He leaped on the threshold, and she caught and drew him in with both hands.
The chill had gone from her. A rush of glowing life swept through her arteries and suffused her cheeks.
"Saved!" she gasped. "Oh, Jean, is it well?"
"I am but just in time!" he answered. "All is well. I came on—my father is behind, too tired to proceed at my pace. Oh, Noémi, Noémi——"