The Forest of Vazon | Page 4

had addressed her, and when he approached he
came, bare-headed, with a low obeisance and a deferential air. He
seated himself by her in silence, after murmuring a few words of
welcome to the feast, to which she made no answer. Presently he spoke
again, softly and courteously; she replied without constraint, speaking
his own language fluently, though with a foreign accent. The ice once
broken their talk rippled on, as is the wont of light words, brightly
uttered. Jean drank in each gentle phrase, watched every graceful
gesture; his heart bounded when she carelessly smiled. But he lost not
his daring: when the musicians again struck up he boldly asked her to
join in the dance.
She was not offended, her look showed no displeasure, but she refused;

he renewed his request; suddenly a change came over her face, she
looked rapidly round as though searching for some one who was not
present, a flash came into her eyes, she sprang to her feet. "Why should
I not dance!" she said; "they are merry, why should I alone be sad!"
She let him lead her into the ring. If she had been enchanting when
seated, what was her power when she moved! She was a model of
grace and loveliness; the contrast of her colouring to that of her
neighbours inspired the superstitious with some terror, but made the
braver spirits gaze more curiously, indifferent to the half-concealed
anger and affected disdain of their partners. Every moment she gained
more hearts, though she let her eyes rest only on those of Jean. After
the dance was over she seated herself in her former position; the
women then, according to custom, retired outside the stone circle,
while the men clustered round the oak to award the prize. The
ceremony had up to this day been looked on as a pure formality: for the
last two summers the wreath had been by common consent placed on
the brows of Suzanne Falla, and none who woke that morning had
doubted that it would rest there again before night. But now the men's
heads were turned; there was commotion both outside and inside the
circle; then a hush, as the old men rose in their places and the young
men formed a lane to the tree. Jean stepped out, and taking the stranger
by the hand, led her to where a white-haired veteran stood with the
wreath in his hand. The next moment it was placed on her brows, and
then all voices burst into a song of triumph, which rang to the remotest
glades of the forest. Suzanne did not join in the song; her little heart
was breaking; all the passion of her hot nature was roused; she felt
herself unfairly, unjustly, treated; insulted on the very day that was to
have crowned her pride. She could not control herself, nor could she
accept her defeat: she stamped her foot on the ground, and poured out a
torrent of objurgation, accusing Jean of treachery, demanding to know
whence he had produced her rival, appealing to the elders to revise the
judgment. Then, suddenly ceasing, as she saw by the looks of those
around her that while in some her fate created pity, in others it gave rise
to amusement, in many to the pleasure which poor human nature felt
then as now in a friend's misfortune, her mood altered: she turned and,
rapidly leaving the crowd, crossed one of the bridges. Hastening her
steps, but not watching them, she tripped over the straggling root of a

yew, and fell, her temple striking a sharp boulder, one of many
cropping up in the forest. Poor girl! in one moment passion and pride
had flown; she lay senseless, blood streaming from the wound.
A quick revulsion of feeling swept through the impressionable people.
Her departure had been watched, the fall observed, and the serious
nature of the accident was soon known; all hurried to the spot where
she lay, full of sympathy and distress. Jean, perhaps not altogether
unremorseful, was among the first to proffer aid; the stranger, left alone,
took off the wreath and placed it on one of the stones of the circle, by
which she stood contemplating the scene.
The blow, struck deep into the temple, was beyond any ordinary means
of cure; life indeed seemed to be ebbing away. "Send for Marie!" the
cry sprang from many mouths: "send for Marie the wise woman! she
alone can save her!" Three or four youths ran hastily off.
"Wish ye for Marie Torode's body or her spirit?" said a harsh female
voice; "her body ye can have! but what avail closed eyes and rigid
limbs? Her spirit, tossed by the whirling death-blast, is beyond your
reach!"
The speaker, on whom all eyes turned,