Meantime the dawn was rising around
them. The young man, who had sometimes been sent to Orcheres by his
master, knew all the shortest cuts. Thus they walked on for more than
two leagues, along dingle paths by the side of interminable ledges and
walls. Now and again Miette accused Silvere of having taken her the
wrong way; for, at times--for a quarter of an hour at a stretch--they
lost all sight of the surrounding country, seeing above the walls and
hedges nothing but long rows of almond-trees whose slender branches
showed sharply against the pale sky.
All at once, however, they came out just in front of Orcheres. Loud
cries of joy, the shouting of a crowd, sounded clearly in the limpid
air. The insurrectionary forces were only now entering the town. Miette
and Silvere went in with the stragglers. Never had they seen such
enthusiasm. To judge from the streets, one would have thought it was a
procession day, when the windows are decked with the finest drapery to
honour the passage of the Canopy. The townsfolk welcomed the insurgents
as though they were deliverers. The men embraced them, while the women
brought them food. Old men were to be seen weeping at the doors. And the
joyousness was of an essentially Southern character, pouring forth in
clamorous fashion, in singing, dancing, and gesticulation. As Miette
passed along she was carried away by a _farandole_[*] which spread
whirling all round the Grand' Place. Silvere followed her.
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