Before his mental vision passed slowly, automatically, the image of the evil priest, who had lived there with his court of harlots.

He felt weary from kneeling, and let himself sink to the ground.

Again he was the slow automaton.

With a painful effort he rose to a sitting posture, and dropped his hand upon the tufts of soft, sweet-smelling grass, pushing up between the stones.

He closed his eyes in enjoyment of the sweetness of that soft touch, of the wild odour, of rest, and he saw Jeanne, pale under the drooping brim of her black, plumed hat, smiling at him, her eyes wet with tears.