“Tête-Dieu,” said Tristan, “here is a crone! Ah! So the witch girl hath fled! And in which direction did she go?” Gudule replied in a careless tone,—
“Through the Rue du Mouton, I believe.”
Tristan turned his head and made a sign to his troop to prepare to set out on the march again. The recluse breathed freely once more.
“Monseigneur,” suddenly said an archer, “ask the old elf why the bars of her window are broken in this manner.”
This question brought anguish again to the heart of the miserable mother. Nevertheless, she did not lose all presence of mind.
“They have always been thus,” she stammered.
“Bah!” retorted the archer, “only yesterday they still formed a fine black cross, which inspired devotion.”
Tristan cast a sidelong glance at the recluse.
“I think the old dame is getting confused!”
The unfortunate woman felt that all depended on her self-possession, and, although with death in her soul, she began to grin. Mothers possess such strength.