"Good metal—good metal, both. I marked them for men of mine. . . . What is it I see in your face? Doubt?"
I was teaching myself to speak the truth to her, not trimming it or polishing it; so I said:
"They considered you out of your head, and said so. It is true they pitied you for being in such misfortune, but still they held you to be mad."
This did not seem to trouble her in any way or wound her. She only said:
"The wise change their minds when they perceive that they have been in error. These will. They will march with me. I shall see them presently. . . . You seem to doubt again? Do you doubt?"
"N-no. Not now. I was remembering that it was a year ago, and that they did not belong here, but only chanced to stop a day on their journey."
"They will come again. But as to matters now in hand; I came to leave with you some instructions. You will follow me in a few days. Order your affairs, for you will be absent long."
"Will Jean and Pierre go with me?"
"No; they would refuse now, but presently they will come, and with them they will bring my parents' blessing, and likewise their consent that I take up my mission. I shall be stronger, then—stronger for that; for lack of it I am weak now." She paused a little while, and the tears gathered in her eyes; then she went on: "I would say good-by to Little Mengette. Bring her outside the village at dawn; she must go with me a little of the way—"
"And Haumette?"
She broke down and began to cry, saying:
"No, oh, no—she is too dear to me, I could not bear it, knowing I should never look upon her face again."
Next morning I brought Mengette, and we four walked along the road in the cold dawn till the village was far behind; then the two girls said their good-bys, clinging about each other's neck, and pouring out their grief in loving words
