“You are right,” said his companion; and, resting his foot against the edge of the rock, and reclining on the slope, he gave him a roll of hollow wood.

A gun was fired, and a ball buried itself, hissing, in the snow at their feet.

“Marked!” said the first.  “Roll down.  If you are not dead when you get to the bottom, take the road you see before you.  On the left of the hollow is Santa Maria.  But turn to the right; cross Oleron; and you are on the road to Pau and are saved.  Go; roll down.”

As he spoke, he pushed his comrade, and without condescending to look after him, and himself neither ascending nor descending, followed the flank of the mountain horizontally, hanging on by rocks, branches, and even by plants, with the strength and energy of a wild-cat, and soon found himself on firm ground before a small wooden hut, through which a light was visible.  The adventurer went all around it, like a hungry wolf round a sheepfold, and, applying his eye to one of the openings, apparently saw what determined him, for without further hesitation he pushed the tottering door, which was not even fastened by a latch.  The whole but shook with the blow he had given it.  He then saw that it was divided into two cabins by a partition.  A large flambeau of yellow wax lighted the first.  There, a young girl, pale and fearfully thin, was crouched in a corner on the damp floor, just where the melted snow ran under the planks of the cottage.  Very long black hair, entangled and covered with dust, fell in disorder over her coarse brown dress; the red hood of the Pyrenees covered her head and shoulders.  Her eyes were cast down; and she was spinning with a small distaff attached to her waist.  The entry of a man did not appear to move her in the least.

“Ha!  La moza,—­[girl]—­get up and give me something to drink.  I am tired and thirsty.”

The young girl did not answer, and, without raising her eyes, continued to spin assiduously.

“Dost hear?” said the stranger, thrusting her with his foot.  “Go and tell thy master that a friend wishes to see him; but first give me some drink.  I shall sleep here.”

She answered, in a hoarse voice, still spinning: 

“I drink the snow that melts on the rock, or the green scum that floats on the water of the swamp.  But when I have spun well, they give me water from the iron spring.  When I sleep, the cold lizards crawl over my face; but when I have well cleaned a mule, they throw me hay.  The hay is warm; the hay is good and warm.  I put it under my marble feet.”

“What tale art thou telling me?” said Jacques.  “I spoke not of thee.”

She continued: 

“They make me hold a man while they kill him.  Oh, what blood I have had on my hands!  God forgive them!—­if that be possible.  They make me hold his head, and the bucket filled with crimson water.  O Heaven!—­I, who was the bride of God!  They throw their bodies into the abyss of snow; but the vulture finds them; he lines his nest with their hair.  I now see thee full of life; I shall see thee bloody, pale, and dead.”