The words were scarcely out of his mouth when the cow came up to the
railings and held out her warm damp nose, as if she were glad of human
society. Then a woman, if so indescribable a being could be called a
woman, sprang up from the bushes, and pulled at the cord about the
cow's neck. From beneath the crimson handkerchief about the woman's
head, fair matted hair escaped, something as tow hangs about a
spindle. She wore no kerchief at the throat. A coarse black-and-gray
striped woolen petticoat, too short by several inches, left her legs
bare. She might have belonged to some tribe of Redskins in Fenimore
Cooper's novels; for her neck, arms, and ankles looked as if they had
been painted brick-red. There was no spark of intelligence in her
featureless face; her pale, bluish eyes looked out dull and
expressionless from beneath the eyebrows with one or two straggling
white hairs on them. Her teeth were prominent and uneven, but white as
a dog's.

"Hallo, good woman," called M. de Sucy.

She came slowly up to the railing, and stared at the two sportsmen
with a contorted smile painful to see.

"Where are we? What is the name of the house yonder? Whom does it
belong to? Who are you? Do you come from hereabouts?"

To these questions, and to a host of others poured out in succession
upon her by the two friends, she made no answer save gurgling sounds
in the throat, more like animal sounds than anything uttered by a
human voice.

"Don't you see that she is deaf and dumb?" said M. d'Albon.