had started out, they did not
know in what direction they were going; so that they passed through the
whole forest once more, found themselves again on the edge of the
deserted moor, retraced their steps, and, after turning about and
walking a long while, they spied a light through the trees.

"Good! there's a house," said Germain, "and people already awake, as the
fire's lighted. Can it be very late?"

But it was not a house: it was their camp-fire which they had covered
when they left it, and which had rekindled in the breeze.

They had walked about for two hours, only to find themselves back at
their starting-point.

XI

IN THE OPEN AIR

"This time I give it up!" said Germain, stamping on the ground. "A spell
has been cast on us, that's sure, and we shall not get away from here
till daylight. This place must be bewitched."

"Well, well, let's not lose our tempers," said Marie, "but let us make
the best of it. We'll make a bigger fire, the child is so well wrapped
up that he runs no risk, and it won't kill us to pass a night
out-of-doors. Where did you hide the saddle, Germain? In the middle of
the holly-bushes, you great stupid! It's such a convenient place to go
and get it!"

"Here, take the child, while I pull his bed out of the brambles; I don't
want you to prick your fingers."

"It's all done, there's the bed, and a few pricks aren't sword-cuts,"
retorted the brave girl.

She proceeded to put little Pierre to bed once more; the boy was so
sound asleep by that time, that he knew nothing about their last
journey. Germain piled so much wood on the fire that it lighted up the
forest all around; but little Marie was at the end of her strength, and,
although she did not complain, her legs refused to hold her. She was
deathly pale, and her teeth chattered with cold and weakness. Germain
took her in his arms to warm her; and anxiety, compassion, an
irresistible outburst of tenderness taking possession of his heart,
imposed silence on his passions. His tongue was loosened, as if by a
miracle, and as all feeling of shame disappeared, he said to her:

"Marie, I like you, and I am very unfortunate in not making you like me.
If you would take me for your husband, neither father-in-law nor
relations nor neighbors nor advice could prevent me from giving myself
to you. I know you would make my children happy and teach them to
respect their mother's memory, and, as my conscience would be at rest, I
could s