“Not now,” I cried; “I cannot, I cannot.  I was so young, monsieur; I did not know what I was promising.  I could never return to him, never.”

“My daughter,” pursued the inexorable voice beside me, “is it because there is any one whom thou lovest more?”

“Oh!” I cried, almost involuntarily, and speaking now in my own language, “I do not know.  I could have loved Martin dearly—­dearly.”

“I do not understand thy words,” said Monsieur Laurentie, “but I understand thy tears and sighs.  Thou must stay here, my daughter, with me, and these poor, simple people who love thee.  I will not let thee go into temptation.  Courage; thou wilt be happy among us, when thou hast conquered this evil.  As for the rest, I must think about it.  Let us go in now.  The lamp has been lit and supper served this half-hour.  There is my sister looking out at us.  Come, madame.  You are in my charge, and I will take care of you.”

A few days after this, the whole community was thrown into a tumult by the news that their cure was about to undertake the perils of a voyage to England, and would be absent a whole fortnight.  He said it was to obtain some information as to the English system of drainage in agricultural districts, which might make their own valley more healthy and less liable to fever.  But it struck me that he was about to make some inquiries concerning my husband, and perhaps about Minima, whose desolate position had touched him deeply.  I ventured to tell him what danger might arise to me if any clew to my hiding-place fell into Richard Foster’s hands.

“My poor child,” he said, “why art thou so fearful?  There is not a man here who would not protect thee.  He would be obliged to prove his identity, and thine, before he could establish his first right to claim thee.  Then we would enter a proces.  Be content.  I am going to consult some lawyers of my own country and thine.”

He bade us farewell, with as many directions and injunctions as a father might leave to a large family of sons and daughters.  Half the village followed his char-a-banc as far as the cross where he had found Minima and me, six miles on his road to Noireau.  His sister and I, who had ridden with him so far, left him there, and walked home up the steep, long road, in the midst of that enthusiastic crowd of his parishioners.

CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH.

A MOMENT OF TRIUMPH.

The afternoon of that day was unusually sultry and oppressive.  The blue of the sky was almost livid.  I was weary with the long walk in the morning, and after our mid-day meal I stole away from mademoiselle and Minima in the salon, and betook myself to the cool shelter of the church, where the stone walls three feet thick, and the narrow casements covered with vine-leaves, kept out the heat more effectually than the half-timber walls of the presbytery.  A vicaire from a neighboring parish was to