“Gabriel!” cried the voice from the bed in altered tones—­very faint and trembling.

He did not hear or did not attend to the old man.  He was trying to soothe and encourage the young girl at his feet.

“Don’t be frightened, love,” he said, kissing her very gently and tenderly on the forehead.  “You are as safe here as anywhere.  Was I not right in saying that it would be madness to attempt taking you back to the farmhouse this evening?  You can sleep in that room, Perrine, when you are tired—­you can sleep with the two girls.”

“Gabriel! brother Gabriel!” cried one of the children.  “Oh, look at grandfather!”

Gabriel ran to the bedside.  The old man had raised himself into a sitting position; his eyes were dilated, his whole face was rigid with terror, his hands were stretched out convulsively toward his grandson.  “The White Women!” he screamed.  “The White Women; the grave-diggers of the drowned are out on the sea!”

The children, with cries of terror, flung themselves into Perrine’s arms; even Gabriel uttered an exclamation of horror, and started back from the bedside.

Still the old man reiterated, “The White Women!  The White Women!  Open the door, Gabriel! look-out westward, where the ebb-tide has left the sand dry.  You’ll see them bright as lightning in the darkness, mighty as the angels in stature, sweeping like the wind over the sea, in their long white garments, with their white hair trailing far behind them!  Open the door, Gabriel!  You’ll see them stop and hover over the place where your father and your brother have been drowned; you’ll see them come on till they reach the sand, you’ll see them dig in it with their naked feet and beckon awfully to the raging sea to give up its dead.  Open the door, Gabriel—­or, though it should be the death of me, I will get up and open it myself!”

Gabriel’s face whitened even to his lips, but he made a sign that he would obey.  It required the exertion of his whole strength to keep the door open against the wind while he looked out.

“Do you see them, grandson Gabriel?  Speak the truth, and tell me if you see them,” cried the old man.

“I see nothing but darkness—­pitch darkness,” answered Gabriel, letting the door close again.

“Ah! woe! woe!” groaned his grandfather, sinking back exhausted on the pillow.  “Darkness to you; but bright as lightning to the eyes that are allowed to see them.  Drowned! drowned!  Pray for their souls, Gabriel—­I see the White Women even where I lie, and dare not pray for them.  Son and grandson drowned! both drowned!”

The young man went back to Perrine and the children.

“Grandfather is very ill to-night,” he whispered.  “You had better all go into the bedroom, and leave me alone to watch by him.”

They rose as he spoke, crossed themselves before the image of the Virgin, kissed him one by one, and, without uttering a word, softly entered the little room on the other side of the partition.  Gabriel looked at his grandfather, and saw that he lay quiet now, with his eyes closed as if he were already dropping asleep.  The young man then heaped some fresh logs on the fire, and sat down by it to watch till morning.