“Yes,” Verrieul said, “but your question put him in mind of something else. He says your question doesn’t require an answer because he is making no effort to persuade you to go without your pants. For him it is foolish to wear pants; but it is for you to do as you please, without worrying about what he will think, or what his sister will think. He also says that yesterday, in passing the shipyard, his sister was unable to see you at work in your usual place, and spoke of it to him. Today she looked even more carefully to discover where you were working, and expressed surprise that you should be absent. She asked whether you had gone away, or had fever. Because of her persistence in speaking of the matter, he says, it is more than likely that she wishes to talk to you about something.”

“Well for God’s sake,” I said, abandoning my concern over Joseph’s pantsless state, “what made him delay telling me? If I hadn’t had occasion to speak to him, I might have been weeks learning about it! This is a hell of a way to treat an important message! There’s no time to be lost! I’ll go at once to where she lives! At once!”

Even before Verrieul had interpreted my reply, Joseph Phipps was off through the scrub that fringed the foot of the limestone mountain, and Verrieul and I followed as best we could through the thick hot darkness of that July night.

The house we sought was in a field—that I could tell from the sweet smell of drying hay—and through the kitchen window we saw Ellen, seated at a table on which burned three tallow dips. Near her sat a worn, stooped woman, her grayish hair slicked back on her head like thin silk. The two of them were sewing; and Ellen, I could see, was talking; while, on the far side of the hearth, a man sat asleep in a barrel chair. The man, Verrieul said, was the woman’s husband.

When Joseph Phipps tapped on the window, the husband sprang from his chair and flattened himself like a squirrel against the chimney-piece, reaching for the musket that hung against it. At a word from Ellen he ceased his effort and stood peacefully enough on the hearth-stone, yawning and scratching the back of his neck.

Ellen came to the window to peer out. Her brother said something in French. Her hand went suddenly to her throat; then fluttered up to touch her brown curls, a touch behind and at the side, such as women find necessary, no matter how their hair is dressed. She came out, then, and stood in the doorway, a slender gray shape.

“Ah,” she said, “it’s you!”