The fear of it is killing me, Baptiste, for it is on my mind all thetime. Think of it: for seven long years he has neither been toconfession nor partaken of the blessed sacrament, and he is drinkingand growing wickeder every day. This is the last night of the seventhyear, and the curse may fall upon him now at any moment. She buriedher wrinkled, fear-stricken face in her thin trembling hands, and weptas though her heart was breaking. "O Marie, blessed Virgin!" shewhispered, "save our son, our Pierre; let not the fate of theloup-garou fall upon him." A thin stream of light shone through anancient crack in the old-fashioned box-stove, and fell caressinglyacross the bowed head, making its silvery hair look pathetically thin.The bent shoulders of the sorrowing mother shook convulsively.
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The anxious mother sprang to her feet, ran to the door, opened it, andstanding on the steps shaded her eyes with her hand, and lookedearnestly down the long snow-clad road in the direction of the littlevillage of St. Pascal. Behind her stood Baptiste, also shading hisweak eyes and looking. Not a human being was in sight. Thezinc-covered spire of the little village church, nearly half a mileaway, glittered and shone in the fairy light like burnished silver.The quaint whitewashed cottages that dotted the road to the villagelooked far different from what they did in the daytime; somehow thecharitable moon had forgotten to reveal the cracks and stains thattime in its relentless march had made. The lines, too, that age andcare had made on the two eager watching faces were also, by the greatruler of the night, tenderly smoothed out.
An unwary movement of my hand caused the screen to creak. Instantly the movements ceased and there was utter silence. I held my breath, and after a second or two the tiny sounds began again. I had a feeling, though my eyes could not assure me, that the man before me was at work, and was using a very small shaded torch. There was just the faintest moving shimmer on the wall beyond, though that might come from the crack of moonlight.
The mist had gone from the sky, and the stars were shining brightly. The moon, now at the end of its first quarter, was setting in a gap of the mountains, as I climbed the low col from the St. Anton valley to the greater Staubthal. There was frost and the hard snow crackled under my wheels, but there was also that feel in the air which preludes storm. I wondered if I should run into snow in the high hills. The whole land was deep in peace. There was not a light in the hamlets I passed through, not a soul on the highway.
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