Marie was silent, cowering in his grasp, looking about with hunted, despairing eyes.  There was nothing to do, no word to say that would help.  It had all been a mistake,—­the sun dancing, the heavens bending down to aid and cheer her,—­all had been a mistake, a lie.  There was nothing now for the rest of her life but this,—­this brutality that clutched and shook her slender figure, this hatred that hissed venomous words in her ear.  This was the end, forever, till death should come to set her free.

But what was this? what was happening?  For the hateful voice faltered, the grasp on her shoulder weakened, the blaze of the fierce eyes turned from her.  A cry was heard, a wild, inarticulate cry of rage, of defiance; the next moment something rushed past her like a flash; there was a brief struggle, a shout, an oath, then a heavy fall.  When the bewildered child could clear her eyes from the mist of fright that clouded them, Le Boss was lying on the ground; and towering over him like an avenging spirit, his blue eyes aflame, his strong hands clenched for another blow, stood Jacques De Arthenay.

Just what happened next, Marie never quite knew.  Words were said as in a dream.  Was it a real voice that was saying:  “This is my wife, you dog! take yourself out of my sight, before worse comes to you!” Was it real? and did Le Boss, gathering himself up from the grass with foul curses, too horrible to think of—­did he make reply that she was his property, that he had bought her, paid for her, and would have his own!  And then the other voice again, saying, “I tell you she is my wife, the wife of a free man.  Speak, Mary, and tell him you are my wife!” And did she—­with those blue eyes on her, which she had never met before, but which now caught and chained her gaze, so that she could not look away, try as she might—­did she of her own free will answer, “Yes, Monsieur, I am your wife, if you say it; if you will keep me from him, Monsieur!” Then—­Marie did not know what came then.  There were more words between the two men, loud and fierce on one side, low and fierce on the other; and then Le Boss was gone, and she was walking back to the house with the man who had saved her, the man to whom she belonged now; the strong man, whose hand, holding hers as they walked, trembled far more than her own.  But Marie did not feel as if she should ever tremble again.  For that one must be alive, must have strength in one’s limbs; and was she dead, she wondered, or only asleep? and would she wake up some happy moment, and find herself in the little white bed at Abiroc’s house, or better still, out in the blessed fields, alone with the birds under the free sky?

CHAPTER VI.

Wedlock.