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Benoit's cottage looked oddly, when all these grand people poured into it. But the mistress of the cottage never looked more like herself, and her reception of the grand people was as simple as that she had given to Daisy. Little Daisy herself lay just where her friend the Captain had left her, but looked with curious expression at the others who entered with him now.
"'Then will I tune my harp of gold To my eternal King. Through ages that can ne'er be told I'll make thy praises ring. All hail, eternal Son of God, Who died on Calvary! Who bought me with his precious blood, From endless misery." Mr. Randolph stood by Mrs. Benoit's chair. "My good woman," he said in suppressed tones, "this is a strange way to put a patient to sleep."
My God! my God!" Yes, it is Benoit Iscariotes. Everyone springs to him. A great tragedy has occurred for Dormillière; perhaps little for a more experienced world. In Benoit's mind quivers a scene that has set shouting all the wild voices of his conscience.
Benoit's cottage; and now Daisy squeezed her hands, and welcomed the sight of her with great affection; and June on her part, though not given to demonstrations, smiled till her wrinkles took all sorts of queer shapes, and even showed her deep black eyes twinkling with something like moisture.
He could not do it without hurting her; she fainted on his shoulder; and it was in this state, white and senseless, that he carried her into Mrs. Benoit's cottage. The old woman had seen them and met him at the door.
Benoit's own bed was; so that Daisy could have the use and possession of this outer room all to herself. Juanita went about her business too noiselessly to induce even those closed eyelids to open. She fetched a tolerably large clothes-horse from somewhere some shed or out-building; this she set at the foot of the couch, and hung an old large green moreen curtain over it.
I stare fixedly at Benoît's square shoulders in front of me, and the dancing tails of his coat as the wind hustles them along the nocturnal way. Passing through the suburban quarter, the wind comes so hard between the infrequent houses that the bushes on either side shiver and press towards us, and seem to unfurl. Ah, we are not made for the greater happenings!
It was Mealy Benoît's turn to answer. At that precise moment, however, Benoît was draining the salad bowl.
It may be worthy of remark that poor Peltier, from the time of Benoit's departure, had fixed on the first of November as the time when he should cease to expect any relief from the Indians, and had repeatedly said that if they did not arrive by that day he should not survive.
But before he had gone five miles Benoit's leaven worked, and he turned into a short-cut lane he knew which led to the mill. He did not stop to ask himself what he should do there; he simply galloped on towards Victorine. It was only a couple of leagues to the mill, and its old tower and wheel were in sight before he thought of its being near.
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