they sprang to
their feet, cheered by the sight of the clear morning. Their melancholy
forebodings had vanished with the darkness, and they gazed with delight
at the immense expanse of the plain, and listened to the tolling of the
two bells that now seemed to be joyfully ringing in a holiday.

"Ah! I've had a good sleep!" Miette cried. "I dreamt you were kissing
me. Tell me now, did you kiss me?"

"It's very possible," Silvere replied laughing. "I was not very warm. It
is bitterly cold."

"I only feel cold in the feet," Miette rejoined.

"Well! let us have a run," said Silvere. "We have still two good leagues
to go. You will get warm."

Thereupon they descended the hill and ran until they reached the high
road. When they were below they raised their heads as if to say farewell
to that rock on which they had wept while their kisses burned their
lips. But they did not again speak of that ardent embrace which had
thrilled them so strongly with vague, unknown desire. Under the pretext
of walking more quickly they did not even take each other's arm. They
experienced some slight confusion when they looked at one another,
though why they could not tell. Meantime the dawn was rising around
them. The young man, who had sometimes been sent to Orcheres by his
master, knew all the shortest cuts. Thus they walked on for more than
two leagues, along dingle paths by the side of interminable ledges and
walls. Now and again Miette accused Silvere of having taken her the
wrong way; for, at times--for a quarter of an hour at a stretch--they
lost all sight of the surrounding country, seeing above the walls and
hedges nothing but long rows of almond-trees whose slender branches
showed sharply against the pale sky.

All at once, however, they came out just in front of Orcheres. Loud
cries of joy, the shouting of a crowd, sounded clearly in the limpid
air. The insurrectionary forces were only now entering the town. Miette
and Silvere went in with the stragglers. Never had they seen such
enthusiasm. To judge from the streets, one would have thought it was a
procession day, when the windows are decked with the finest drapery to
honour the passage of the Canopy. The townsfolk welcomed the insurgents
as though they were deliverers. The men embraced them, while the women
brought them food. Old men were to be seen weeping at the doors. And the
joyousness was of an essentially Southern character, pouring forth in
clamorous fashion, in singing