At that moment the peacocks ceased their wild miaulling. Low and clear, Annaik's voice same thrillingly along the alley:
"Alan! Alan! Oh, Alan, darling, are you there?"
His heart beat. Then a flush sprang to his brow, as with sudden anger he heard Jud Kerbastiou reply, in a thick, muffled tone:
"Yes, yes, ... and, and I love you, Annaik!"
Possibly the sleeper heard and understood. Even at that distance Alan saw the light upon her face, the light from within.
Judik the peasant slowly advanced. His stealthy tread was light as that of a fox. He stopped when he was within a yard of Annaik. "Annaik," he muttered hoarsely, "Annaik, it was I who was out among the beeches in front of the château while the storm was raging. Sure you must have known it; else, why would you come out? I love you, white woman. I am only a peasant ... but I love you, Annaik de Kerival, I love you—I love you—I love you!"
Surely she was on the verge of waking! The color had come back to her white face, her lips moved, as though stirred by a breath from within. Her hands were clasped, and the fingers intertwisted restlessly.
Kerbastiou was so wrought that he did not hear steps behind him as Alan moved swiftly forward.
"Sure, you will be mine at last," the man cried hoarsely, "mine, and none to dispute ... ay, and this very night, too."
Slowly Jud put out an arm. His hand almost touched that of Annaik. Suddenly he was seized from behind, and a hand was claspt firmly upon his mouth. He did not see who his unexpected assailant was, but he heard the whisper that was against his ear: