I am not of the canaille, but a bourgeois. "I can't help thinking of it, Sir," answered the widow. All the sombre visions she had been pressing back, fighting out of her thoughts, swarmed over the barrier and crushed her. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. She saw the moonlit waters, the black shadow of the proa, the moon-fire that ran down the far edge of the bellying sail, the silent natives: no sound except the slapping of the outrigger and the low sibilant murmur of water falling away from the sides—and the beating of her heart. She hated the manor. "I shall kill her if I stay longer," muttered her son, completely terrified.
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