“To die.”
“Oh!” said she, “will it be soon?”
“To-morrow.”
Her head, which had been raised with joy, fell back upon her breast.
“‘Tis very far away yet!” she murmured; “why could they not have done it to-day?”
“Then you are very unhappy?” asked the priest, after a silence.
“I am very cold,” she replied.
She took her feet in her hands, a gesture habitual with unhappy wretches who are cold, as we have already seen in the case of the recluse of the Tour-Roland, and her teeth chattered.