"Will it be fair?" she asked of Father Lucas, the cow-herd. "What sort of a night will they have over by the Thunder Rocks and the White Mare, and in the offing?"
Father Lucas, in turn, scanned the horizon. "Fine-Anguille is a good sea boat!" said he; and passed on with his cows.
"It is the wind!" thought Jeanne, as Ange by an unconscious movement covered his foot with her apron. "It is the wind! God be merciful to us!" Then she entered the house.
At ten o'clock gusts began to blow. The waves moaned piteously. Jeanne could not sleep. But neither the moaning of wind nor wave could disturb Ange as he lay wrapped snugly in his cradle. His mother struck a light. One is not so much frightened when one can see clearly. Then it seems as if one could do any thing; but what can one do against the wind?
"The wind! O my God! the wind," cried Jeanne. "But, at any rate, Fanor is with him!"
Then, as every thing creaked and moaned around her, she fell into a light slumber. She saw the great sea with its frightful gulfs, its white yawning mouth and threatening rocks, and its deceitful shoals. She saw her child on the beach, splashing the water with his naked foot. She saw the little wooden shoe which had been ship-wrecked. Then she heard the voice of Ange murmuring, "I'll make a storm!"
Jeanne trembled.
Then, as the roof of the cottage moved and creaked, she remembered how the waves had entered the little shoe.
All at once she rose up and took Ange, fast asleep, in her arms. She threw her cape over her shoulders. It was raining hard and the wind blew strongly. She lit a lantern; a sudden gust put it out, and she was left in the black darkness. But the surf made so much noise that it served as a guide. She reached the beach in safety.
"Ange! O Ange! if Fine-Anguille has perished!"