It was then six o’clock.  There must have been a slight mist rising from the Viorne, for the darkness seemed to be growing denser.  The young people groped their way along the slope of the Garrigues, till they came to a rock on which they sat down.  Around them lay an abyss of darkness.  They were stranded, as it were, on some reef above a dense void.  And athwart that void, when the dull tramp of the little army had died away, they only heard two bells, the one clear toned and ringing doubtless at their feet, in some village across the road; and the other far-off and faint, responding, as it were, with distant sobs to the feverish plaints of the first.  One might have thought that these bells were recounting to each other, through the empty waste, the sinister story of a perishing world.

Miette and Silvere, warmed by their quick march, did not at first feel the cold.  They remained silent, listening in great dejection to the sounds of the tocsin, which made the darkness quiver.  They could not even see one another.  Miette felt frightened, and, seeking for Silvere’s hand, clasped it in her own.  After the feverish enthusiasm which for several hours had carried them along with the others, this sudden halt and the solitude in which they found themselves side by side left them exhausted and bewildered as though they had suddenly awakened from a strange dream.  They felt as if a wave had cast them beside the highway, then ebbed back and left them stranded.  Irresistible reaction plunged them into listless stupor; they forgot their enthusiasm; they thought no more of the men whom they had to rejoin; they surrendered themselves to the melancholy sweetness of finding themselves alone, hand in hand, in the midst of the wild darkness.

“You are not angry with me?” the girl at length inquired.  “I could easily walk the whole night with you; but they were running too quickly, I could hardly breathe.”

“Why should I be angry with you?” the young man said.

“I don’t know.  I was afraid you might not love me any longer.  I wish I could have taken long strides like you, and have walked along without stopping.  You will think I am a child.”

Silvere smiled, and Miette, though the darkness prevented her from seeing him, guessed that he was doing so.  Then she continued with determination:  “You must not always treat me like a sister.  I want to be your wife some day.”

Forthwith she clasped Silvere to her bosom, and, still with her arms about him, murmured:  “We shall grow so cold; come close to me that we may be warm.”

Then they lapsed into silence.  Until that troublous hour, they had loved one another with the affection of brother and sister.  In their ignorance they still mistook their feelings for tender friendship, although beneath their guileless love their ardent blood surged more wildly day by day.  Given age and experience, a violent passion of southern intensity would at last spring from this idyll.  Every girl