"A moment," I said, and I too went and looked at the twain.
There was no mistake. For these two the trees and the sky, the good and the bad of the world had ceased to be; and as I pulled their cloaks over their faces I muttered to myself, with a remembrance of the course of "The Philosophy":
"Maximum vitae bonum mors."
Then I came back to the lady's side. "Mademoiselle, for these two lying there, the honest man and the knave, what can be done at present has been done. Come, I pray you! It grows late."
"Oh, but I cannot!" And she too went forward to where the long dark things lay stretched out on the sward, and shrinking, she looked, and then on a sudden she sank on her knees, and prayed, and because, whatever had happened, I had never lost my faith in God, without whom we are nothing, I knelt too, and Pierrebon with me, and in our own way we each sought comfort. After a while mademoiselle rose again, and with a voice half choked with tears, said:
"Monsieur, I am ready."
We placed her on my brown horse, which Pierrebon led, I riding his, and so we took our way in silence—a silence now and again broken by a sob from the girl. I said nothing, deeming it wiser to let her be with her thoughts; but as we came to the skirts of the wood I spoke:
"Mademoiselle, I promise you that I will see to the Christian burial of your friend."
And then she wept unrestrainedly. To tell the truth, I knew not what to do, and Pierrebon kept his head well to the front, looking neither to the right nor to the left. In sheer desperation I asked her not to weep, whereat she wept the more; and then I touched her shoulder with my hand, as one would caress a child; but she shook me off, turning a face that seemed scared with terror to me, and I could only stammer out an apology, and remain silent. At last the violence of her grief abated, and I ventured to ask who the dead man was.
"He," she answered sadly, "was a trusted servant, and he was taking me home. His name was Olivet."