still remain will join their brothers to-morrow."

He spoke the word brothers with youthful emphasis.

"A contest is becoming inevitable," he added; "but, at any rate, we have
right on our side, and we shall triumph."

Miette listened to Silvere, her eyes meantime gazing in front of her,
without observing anything.

"'Tis well," she said, when he had finished speaking. And after a fresh
pause she continued: "You warned me, yet I still hoped. . . . However,
it is decided."

Neither of them knew what else to say. The green path in the deserted
corner of the wood-yard relapsed into melancholy stillness; only the
moon chased the shadows of the piles of timber over the grass. The two
young people on the tombstone remained silent and motionless in the
pale light. Silvere had passed his arm round Miette's waist, and she was
leaning against his shoulder. They exchanged no kisses, naught but
an embrace in which love showed the innocent tenderness of fraternal
affection.

Miette was enveloped in a long brown hooded cloak reaching to her feet,
and leaving only her head and hands visible. The women of the lower
classes in Provence--the peasantry and workpeople--still wear these
ample cloaks, which are called pelisses; it is a fashion which must have
lasted for ages. Miette had thrown back her hood on arriving. Living in
the open air and born of a hotblooded race, she never wore a cap. Her
bare head showed in bold relief against the wall, which the moonlight