to her; and then he waved his hand to some one in the wood.
Madame St. Lo drew in her breath. As if he had heard the sound—which was impossible—the man dropped down where he stood, crawled a yard or two on his face, and disappeared.
Madame stared a moment, expecting to see him or hear him. Then, as nothing happened, she screamed. She was a woman of quick impulses, essentially feminine; and she screamed three or four times, standing where she was, her eyes on the edge of the wood. “If that does not bring her out, nothing will!” she thought.
It brought her. An instant, and the Countess appeared, and hurried in dismay to her side.
“What is it?” the younger woman asked, glancing over her shoulder; for all the valley, all the hills were peaceful, and behind Madame St. Lo—but the lady had not discovered it—the servants who had returned were laying the meal. “What is it?” she repeated anxiously.
“Who was it?” Madame St. Lo asked curtly. She was quite calm now.
“Who was—who?”
“The man in the wood?”
The Countess stared a moment, then laughed. “Only the old soldier they call Badelon, gathering simples. Did you think that he would harm me?”
“It was not old Badelon whom I saw!” Madame St. Lo retorted. “It was a younger man, who crept along the other side of the brook, keeping under cover. When I first saw him he was there,” she continued, pointing to the place. “And he crept on and on until he came opposite to you. Then he waved his hand.”
“To me?”
Madame nodded.
“But if you saw him, who was he?” the Countess asked.
