He thinks of the road he must follow, the miles to be overcome, measures his chances of life; and fitful memories arise of a house, so warm and snug, where all will greet him gladly; of Maria who, knowing what he has dared for her sake, will at length raise to him her truthful eyes shining with love.
Perhaps he fell for the last time when succour was near, a few yards only from house or shanty.

Often so it happens.

Cold and his ministers of death flung themselves upon him as their prey; they have stilled the strong limbs forever, covered his open handsome face with snow, closed the fearless eyes without gentleness or pity, changed his living body into a thing of ice ...

Maria has no more tears that she may shed, but she shivers and trembles as he must have trembled and shivered before he sank into merciful unconsciousness; horror and pity in her face, Maria draws nearer the stove as though she might thus bring him warmth and shield his dear life against the assassin.
"O Christ Jesus, who didst stretch forth Thine arm to those in need, why didst Thou not disperse the snows with those pale hands of Thine?
Holy Virgin, why didst Thou not sustain him by Thy power when, for the last time, his feet were stumbling?
In all the legions of heaven why was there found no angel to show him the way ?" But it is her grief that utters these reproaches, and the steadfast heart of Maria is fearful of having sinned in yielding to it.
Another dread is soon to assail her.

Perhaps Francois Paradis was not able quite faithfully to keep the promises he made to her.