The month was July; and Mademoiselle Henriette was out in the garden, a bunch of monkey-flowers in her hand, when they arrived.  She turned all white, and began to tremble like a leaf.  But when the spokesman stated the charge, there was another tale.

“It was an infamy.  Steal!  She would have them know that she and her sister were of good West Indian family—­tres bien elevees.” Then followed a torrent of epithets.  They were laches-poltrons.  Why were they not fighting Bonaparte, instead of sending their wives up to the cliff’s, dressed in red cloaks, to scare him away, while they bullied weak women?

They pushed past her.  The cottage held two rooms on the ground floor.  In the kitchen, which they searched first, they found only some garden-stuff and a few snails salted in a pan.  There was a door leading to the inner room, and the foremost had his hand on it, when Mademoiselle Henriette rushed before him, and flung herself at his feet.  The yellow monkey-blossoms were scattered and trampled on the floor.

“Ah—­non, non, messieurs!  Je vous prie—­Elle est si—­si horrible!”

They flung her down, and pushed on.

The invalid sister lay in an arm-chair with her back to the doorway, a bunch of monkey-flowers beside her.  As they burst in, she started, laid both hands on the arms of her chair, and turned her face slowly upon them.

She was a leper!

They gave one look at that featureless face, with the white scales shining upon it, and ran back with their arms lifted before their eyes.  One woman screamed.  Then a dead stillness fell on the place, and the cottage was empty.

On the following Saturday Parson Morth walked down to the inn, just ten minutes after stalling his mare.  He strode into the tap-room in his muddy boots, took two men by the neck, knocked their skulls together, and then demanded to hear the truth.

“Very well,” he said, on hearing the tale; “to-morrow I march every man Jack of you up to the valley, if it’s by the scruff of your necks, and in the presence of both of those ladies—­of both, mark you—­you shall kneel down and ask them to come to church.  I don’t care if I empty the building.  Your fathers (who were men, not curs) built the south transept for those same poor souls, and cut a slice in the chancel arch through which they might see the Host lifted.  That’s where you sit, Jim Trestrail, churchwarden; and by the Lord Harry, they shall have your pew.”

He marched them up the very next morning.  He knocked, but no one answered.  After waiting a while, he put his shoulder against the door, and forced it in.

There was no one in the kitchen.  In the inner room one sister sat in the arm-chair.  It was Mademoiselle Henriette, cold and stiff.  Her dead hands were stained with earth.

At the back of the cottage they came on a freshly-formed mound, and stuck on the top of it a piece of slate, such as children erect over a thrush’s grave.