other's hands, uttering exclamations at the sight of some particular
spot, exchanging words at rare intervals, and then understanding each
other but little, for drowsiness came from the warmth of their embrace.
Silvere forgot his Republican enthusiasm; Miette no longer reflected
that her lover would be leaving her in an hour, for a long time, perhaps
for ever. The transports of their affection lulled them into a feeling
of security, as on other days, when no prospect of parting had marred
the tranquility of their meetings.

They still walked on, and soon reached the little crossroad mentioned by
Miette--a bit of a lane which led through the fields to a village on the
banks of the Viorne. But they passed on, pretending not to notice
this path, where they had agreed to stop. And it was only some minutes
afterwards that Silvere whispered, "It must be very late; you will get
tired."

"No; I assure you I'm not at all tired," the girl replied. "I could walk
several leagues like this easily." Then, in a coaxing tone, she added:
"Let us go down as far as the meadows of Sainte-Claire. There we will
really stop and turn back."

Silvere, whom the girl's rhythmic gait lulled to semi-somnolence, made
no objection, and their rapture began afresh. They now went on more
slowly, fearing the moment when they would have to retrace their steps.
So long as they walked onward, they felt as though they were advancing
to the eternity of their mutual embrace; the return would mean
separation and bitter leave-taking.

The declivity of the road was gradually becoming more gentle. In the
valley below there are meadows extending as far as the Viorne, which