“Open, my brother,” she called, for the voice was that of Henri Baptiste, whose turn at the gate it was.
There was an ejaculation, a swift rattle of chains, and the heavy portal swung back, while the blanched face of young Henri stared into the dawn. Maren motioned to the men and they stepped in with their burden.
“Holy Mary! Maren! Maren! Maren!” cried Henri Baptiste, and took both her arms in a gripping clasp. He looked into her face with fear and wonder, as if the girl had returned from the dead, while joy unspeakable began to lighten his features.
“Sister! Holy Mary!”
And then, when the touch of her in the flesh had dispelled his first horror, when the sight of the factor swinging grotesquely in the blanket had taken on the sense of reality, he raised his voice in a stentorian call.
From every door it brought the populace running, half-dressed and startled, and in scant space a ring of faces stared upon the strangers in stupid awe.
“Ma'amselle Le Moyne!” they whispered, fearfully.
“Mother of Heaven! The factor!”
“Our factor! Out of the hands of Death!”
“Mon Dieu! One of them! And the maid!”