hey do
not know me any more. They are so young," she said apologetically, "that
the things they have seen quite put out their minds--but they obey me,
very nicely."

"Merciful God," he gasped.

"The other," her voice resumed its tone of dull despair, "was killed but
a little while ago by the man who looked in. Monsieur, we were very
hungry and frightened, and she was crying; but I tried--oh, how I
tried--to comfort her! Then in anger he came, and--and stuck her with
the long knife on his gun. Oh, Monsieur," she whispered, clinging to him
in a new terror, "I was glad for the darkness!"

A sob, arising from the very depths of Jeb's soul, burst from his lips.
Scalding tears of rage and anguish streamed down his cheeks; and these
must have touched her upturned face, for she raised a thin hand and
patted him, whispering:

"You are very kind, Monsieur, to weep for her."

"My poor little child," he moaned, "my poor little child! Oh, what a
plight they've left you in!--with only the dead, and worse than dead!"

The moon had cleared by now, bathing the ruined hamlet with a silvery
sheen, although the place which sheltered them remained in darkness.
But through a rift in the broken wall stole one narrow beam of light,
and he moved slightly to let this fall upon her face--then just in time
caught himself, else he would have given a cry of pain and fury.

Her eyes, horrified and shadowed by the cruelties she had witnessed,
were turned to him; great, dark, hollow eyes which seemed to be looking
directly through him to some confusion of thoughts beyond. Her face was
pinched and blue with lack of nourishment, the skin stretched tightly
over cheek bones which seemed about to push through; her lips were
wax-like, dry and cracked, and her ears were almost transparent. But
even more appalling than any of these was the utter despair, the absence
of hope or desire of life, that had changed the bloom of youth to the
decay of age. She might have been the wan ghost of a shrivelled old
woman lying in his arms, instead of young flesh and blood!

This martyred child, who should be sleeping happily amidst dreams of
dolls and play--what was the ghastly thing into which she had been
made? The father, who with horse and plowshare should be summoned by the
morning cock to yielding fields--where was that servant of the vineyard?
The mother, who should be planning for the harvest which her capable
hands would convert into winter comforts--what