"Ah! Monsieur le cure, what will they do to me?" said La Pechina, when
the brother and sister were out of sight.

The countess, as white as her handkerchief, was so overcome that she
heard neither Blondet nor the abbe nor La Pechina.

"It is enough to drive one from this terrestrial paradise," she said
at last. "But the first thing of all is to save that child from their
claws."

"You are right," said Blondet in a low voice. "That child is a poem, a
living poem."

Just then the Montenegrin girl was in a state where soul and body
smoke, as it were, after the conflagration of an anger which has
driven all forces, physical and intellectual, to their utmost tension.
It is an unspeakable and supreme splendor, which reveals itself only
under the pressure of some frenzy, be it resistance or victory, love
or martyrdom. She had left home in a dress with alternate lines of
brown and yellow, and a collarette which she pleated herself by rising
before daylight; and she had not yet noticed the condition of her gown
soiled by her struggle on the grass, and her collar torn in
Catherine's grasp. Feeling her hair hanging loose, she looked about
her for a comb. At this moment Michaud, also attracted by the screams,
came upon the scene. Seeing her god, La Pechina recovered her full
strength. "Monsieur Michaud," she cried, "he did not even touch me!"

The cry, the look, the action of the girl were an eloquent commentary,
and told more to Blondet and the abbe than Madame Michaud had told the
countess about the passion of that strange nature for the bailiff, who