She walked down the path and into the house, leaving the spade she had used standing against the wall. Some sudden impulse made her pause in the doorway and look back at Brent. He had followed her as far as the gateway leading into the yard, and was resting his crossed hands on the muzzle of his rifle, and she noticed that he rocked slightly from foot to foot. The man could hardly stand, and her heart smote her.
“Monsieur!”
She disappeared into the house, and returned almost immediately with her hat and coat, a little leather bag, and a bottle of red wine. The bottle was half full.
“Monsieur, pour votre santé.”
Brent stepped forward, and took the bottle from her. His hand shook.
“Ah, mon pauvre vieux—comme vous êtes fatigué!”
She pinned on her hat while Brent drank the wine, looking at him with eyes that were no longer hard and black, but softly brown and gentle. She was aware of his dry, cracked lips, the working of the muscles in his throat, a slight trembling of the arm that held the bottle.
“Monsieur, venez avec moi.”
Brent stared. He understood. Then he nodded his head at the spade she had left by the doorway.
“Non. Mon ami est mort.—Over there. Compris?”