uring vision, dropped
to the crouch of a setting dog, and made his spring. But in that spring
he fell upon us.

Recognizing Volpatte and Fouillade, big Lamuse gave shouts of delight.
At once he had no other thought than to get possession of the bags,
rifles, and haversacks--"Give me all of it--I'm resting--come on, give
it up."

He must carry everything. Farfadet and I willingly gave up Volpatte's
equipment; and Fouillade, now at the end of his strength, agreed to
surrender his pouches and his rifle.

Lamuse became a moving heap. Under the huge burden he disappeared, bent
double, and made progress only with shortened steps.

But we felt that he was still under the sway of a certain project, and
his glances went sideways. He was seeking the woman after whom he had
hurled himself. Every time he halted, the better to trim some detail of
the load, or puffingly to mop the greasy flow of perspiration, he
furtively surveyed all the corners of the horizon and scrutinized the
edges of the wood. He did not see her again.

I did see her again, and got a distinct impression this time that it
was one of us she was after. She half arose on our left from the green
shadows of the undergrowth. Steadying herself with one hand on a
branch, she leaned forward and revealed the night-dark eyes and pale
face, which showed--so brightly lighted was one whole side of it--like
a crescent moon.

I saw that she was smiling. And following the course of the look that
smiled, I saw Farfadet a little way behind us, and he was smiling too.
Then she slipped away into the dark foliage, carrying the twin smile
with her.

Thus was the understanding revealed to me between this lissom and
dainty gypsy, who was like no one at all, and Farfadet, conspicuous
among us all--slender, pliant and sensitive as lilac. Evidently--!

Lamuse saw nothing, blinded and borne down as he was by the load he had
taken from Farfadet and me, occupied in the poise of them, and in
finding where his laden and leaden feet might tread.

But he looks unhappy; he groans. A weighty and mournful obsession is
stifling him. In his harsh breathing it seems to me that I can hear his
heart beating and muttering. Looking at Volpatte, hooded in bandages,
and then at the strong man, muscular and full-blooded, with that
profound and eternal yearning whose sharpness he alone can gauge, I say
to myself that the worst wounded man is not he whom we think.

We go down at last to the village