‘Champion?’ ‘The lad you saw following her. She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. At this moment, Davies, who had completed his preparations, extinguished the torch. I leaned over and looked at him—he was quite still. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. She must get to the vestry. But the wench who tricked me shall bitterly repent it.
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