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. "Let's have a drink," says
Fouillade. "I'm going to be sent back," says Volpatte. Lamuse puffs
and groans.