“Is it because you are cold that you want it?” said Elizabeth, in her gentle, innocent way, “I will give it to you.  Take it.”

Had not the holy ones in the legends given their garments to the poor?  Why should she not give her cloak?

In an instant it was unclasped and snatched away, and the woman was gone.  She did not even stay long enough to give thanks for the gift, and something in her haste and roughness made Elizabeth wonder and gave her a moment of tremor.

She made her way back to the place where the other woman and her children had been sitting; the cold wind made her shiver, and the basket was very heavy for her slender arm.  Her strength seemed to be giving way.

As she turned the corner, a great, fierce gust of wind swept round it, and caught her breath and made her stagger.  She thought she was going to fall; indeed, she would have fallen but that one of the tall men who were passing put out his arm and caught her.  He was a well dressed man, in a heavy overcoat; he had gloves on.  Elizabeth spoke in a faint tone.  “I thank you,” she began, when the second man uttered a wild exclamation and sprang forward.

“Elizabeth!” he said, “Elizabeth!”

Elizabeth looked up and uttered a cry herself.  It was her Uncle Bertrand who stood before her, and his companion, who had saved her from falling, was Dr. Norris.

For a moment it seemed as if they were almost struck dumb with horror; and then her Uncle Bertrand seized her by the arm in such agitation that he scarcely seemed himself—­not the light, satirical, jesting Uncle Bertrand she had known at all.

“What does it mean?” he cried.  “What are you doing here, in this horrible place alone?  Do you know where it is you have come?  What have you in your basket?  Explain! explain!”

The moment of trial had come, and it seemed even more terrible than the poor child had imagined.  The long strain and exertion had been too much for her delicate body.  She felt that she could bear no more; the cold seemed to have struck to her very heart.  She looked up at Monsieur de Rochemont’s pale, excited face, and trembled from head to foot.  A strange thought flashed into her mind.  Saint Elizabeth, of Thuringia—­the cruel Landgrave.  Perhaps the Saints would help her, too, since she was trying to do their bidding.  Surely, surely it must be so!

“Speak!” repeated Monsieur de Rochemont.  “Why is this?  The basket—­what have you in it?”

“Roses,” said Elizabeth, “Roses.”  And then her strength deserted her—­she fell upon her knees in the snow—­the basket slipped from her arm, and the first thing which fell from it was—­no, not roses,—­there had been no miracle wrought—­not roses, but the case of jewels which she had laid on the top of the other things that it might be the more easily carried.

[ILLUSTRATION:  HER STRENGTH DESERTED HER—­SHE FELL UPON HER KNEES IN THE SNOW.]