"Have you candles--many candles, Angelique?"

"There are many, my husband."

"The ground is as iron; one cannot dig, and the water under the ice is
cruel--is it not so, Angelique?"

"No axe could break the ground, and the water is cruel," she said.

"You will see my face until the winter is gone, my wife."

She bowed her head, but smoothed his hand meanwhile, and her throat was
quivering.

He partly slept--his body slept, though his mind was feeling its way to
wonderful things. But near the morning his eyes opened wide, and he
said: "Someone calls out of the dark, Angelique."

And she, with her hand on her heart, replied: "It is the cry of a dog,
Antoine."

"But there are footsteps at the door, my wife."

"Nay, Antoine; it is the snow beating upon the window."

"There is the sound of wings close by--dost thou not hear them,
Angelique?"

"Wings--wings," she falteringly said: "it is the hot blast through the
chimney; the night is cold, Antoine."