Come and show me that hole in the
fence. There is no one about. But don't run."
They hurried across the sunlit, smiling terrace.
"What was the matter?" Caroline queried fearfully, "was she--was
she--"
"Yes," said Joan brusquely. "Yes. Don't think about it. Don't run
and don't think. Only find the hole."
They stood beside it. No one was near them; no one called to them.
Silently Caroline slid under the sharp prongs. Joan of Arc put her
hands under her skirt a moment and a white ruffled petticoat slipped
around her feet. She adjusted it over her dress and pulled herself
with difficulty through. As she stood erect in the soiled, stained
petticoat, Caroline saw her knees, tremble under it, and she
drooped against the fence, white-cheeked.
"Don't faint," she said severely to Caroline.
With shaking hands she tied the petticoat under her dress again and
they crouched through the underbrush to the outer walk. Caroline
reached for her wheel and the two peered fearfully up and down the
empty road.
"I can't--I can't," the girl moaned, "my dress is so black--they can
see it from the hill. Oh, what shall I do? I thought I could, and I
can't!"
The measured trot of a pair of horses sounded on the road. An empty
station wagon came rapidly toward them; groom and driver regarded
them curiously.
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