M. Dupont, after collecting those things which are necessary in the
administration of the last rites, put on his shovel hat and took up a
lantern.
“Come,” he said, “we must hurry.” And together they set out along the
white road, between the whispering alders and over the iron bridge. The
lantern swung feebly in his grasp. They walked in complete silence until
they reached the terrace when Lily, looking up suddenly, saw that the
sky behind the lodge was filled with a cloudy whiteness as if gray smoke
were drifting across the sky.
“There is a fire somewhere,” she said placing a hand on the arm of her
companion.
M. Dupont halted and regarded the sky for a moment, holding his lantern
high so that the rays might penetrate the darkness beyond the vine
covered lodge.
“It is not smoke,” he said suddenly. “It is dust. The cavalry is passing
along the road.”
And then for the first time the small revealing noises reached Lily’s
ear ... the clanking of spurs, the creaking of girths, the muffled sound
of hoofs striking the white road, and then the solitary whicker of a
horse.