He did not hear or did not attend to the old man. He was trying
to soothe and encourage the young girl at his feet.
"Don't be frightened, love," he said, kissing her very gently and
tenderly on the forehead. "You are as safe here as anywhere. Was I
not right in saying that it would be madness to attempt taking
you back to the farmhouse this evening? You can sleep in that
room, Perrine, when you are tired--you can sleep with the two
girls."
"Gabriel! brother Gabriel!" cried one of the children. "Oh, look
at grandfather!"
Gabriel ran to the bedside. The old man had raised himself into a
sitting position; his eyes were dilated, his whole face was rigid
with terror, his hands were stretched out convulsively toward his
grandson. "The White Women!" he screamed. "The White Women; the
grave-diggers of the drowned are out on the sea!"
The children, with cries of terror, flung themselves into
Perrine's arms; even Gabriel uttered an exclamation of horror,
and started back from the bedside.
Still the old man reiterated, "The White Women! The White Women!
Open the door, Gabriel! look-out westward, where the ebb-tide has
left the sand dry. You'll see them bright as lightning in the
darkness, mighty as the angels in stature, sweeping like the wind
over the sea, in their long white garments, with their white hair
trailing far behind them! Open the door, Gabriel! You'll see them
stop and hover over the place where your father and your brother
have been drowned; you'll see them come on till they reach the
sand, you'll see them dig in it with their naked feet and beckon
awfully to the raging sea to give up its dead.
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