Stopping his horse on the instant, he felt an icy shudder pass through his frame.  The same voice rose higher and called him again.  He recognized it as the voice of Madame de Tecle.  Looking around him in the obscure light with a rapid glance, he saw a light shining through the foliage in the direction of the cottage of the sabot-maker.  Guided by this, he put spurs to his horse, crossed the cleared ground up the hillside, and found himself face to face with Madame de Tecle.  She was standing at the threshold of the hut, her head bare, and her beautiful hair dishevelled under a long, black lace veil.  She was giving a servant some hasty orders.  When she saw Camors approach, she came toward him.

“Pardon me,” she said, “but I thought I recognized you, and I called you.  I am so much distressed—­so distressed!  The two children of this man are dying!  What is to be done?  Come in—­come in, I beg of you!”

He leaped to the ground, threw the reins to his servant, and followed Madame de Tekle into the interior of the cabin.

The two children with the golden hair were lying side by side on a little bed, immovable, rigid, their eyes open and the pupils strangely dilated—­their faces red, and agitated by slight convulsions.  They seemed to be in the agony of death.  The old doctor, Du Rocher, was leaning over them, looking at them with a fixed, anxious, and despairing eye.  The mother was on her knees, her head clasped in her hands, and weeping bitterly.  At the foot of the bed stood the father, with his savage mien—­his arms crossed, and his eyes dry.  He shuddered at intervals, and murmured, in a hoarse, hollow voice:  “Both of them!  Both of them!” Then he relapsed into his mournful attitude.  M. Durocher, approached Camors quickly.  “Monsieur,” said he, “what can this be?  I believe it to be poisoning, but can detect no definite symptoms:  otherwise, the parents should know—­but they know nothing!  A sunstroke, perhaps; but as both were struck at the same time—­and then at this season—­ah! our profession is quite useless sometimes.”

Camors made rapid inquiries.  They had sought M. Durocher, who was dining with Madame de Tecle an hour before.  He had hastened, and found the children already speechless, in a state of fearful congestion.  It appeared they had fallen into this state when first attacked, and had become delirious.

Camors conceived an idea.  He asked to see the clothes the children had worn during the day.  The mother gave them to him.  He examined them with care, and pointed out to the doctor several red stains on the poor rags.  The doctor touched his forehead, and turned over with a feverish hand the small linen—­the rough waistcoat—­searched the pockets, and found dozens of a small fruit-like cherries, half crushed.  “Belladonna!” he exclaimed.  “That idea struck me several times, but how could I be sure?  You can not find it within twenty miles of this place, except in this cursed wood—­of that I am sure.”