came to the little finger and endeavoured to pass the ring over it. This little finger, so small and transparent, that the ring should have hung as loosely upon it as a bracelet on one of Thibault’s, this little finger, in spite of all Agnelette’s efforts, refused to pass through the ring. “Ah! my God, Monsieur Thibault,” cried the child “what does this mean?”
“Ring of the Devil, return to the Devil!” cried Thibault, flinging the ring against a rock, in the hope that it would be broken. As it struck the rock, it emitted flame; then it rebounded, and in rebounding, fitted itself on to Thibault’s finger. Agnelette who saw this strange evolution of the ring, looked at Thibault in horrified amazement. “Well,” he said, trying to brave it out, “what is the matter?”
Agnelette did not answer, but as she continued to look at Thibault, her eye grew more and more wild and frightened. Thibault could not think what she was looking at, but slowly lifting her hand and pointing with her finger at Thibault’s head, she said, “Oh! Monsieur Thibault, Monsieur Thibault, what have you got there?”
“Where?” asked Thibault.
“There! there!” cried Agnelette, growing paler and paler.
“Well, but where?” cried the shoemaker, stamping with his foot. “Tell me what you see.”
But instead of replying, Agnelette covered her face with her hands, and uttering a cry of terror, turned and fled with all her might.
Thibault, stunned by what had happened, did not even attempt to follow her; he stood rooted to the spot, unable to move or speak, as if thunderstruck.
What had Agnelette seen that had alarmed her so? What was it that she pointed to with her finger? Had God branded him, as He branded