"The spring was deep, alas, alas, Therein I needs must fall. Along the road just then did pass Three barons valiant all. "'What will you give us, maiden fair, If to your help we press?' 'An' you do that,' I did declare, 'My gift you'll never guess.' "Now when the little maid was freed And home again that day, Straight to the window she did speed And sang a merry lay. "'Not that we ask, oh, maiden fair, 'Tis hard to treat us so, But tresses of your golden hair, Or tokens ere we go.'" The dance grew faster and more furious. The big Maraîchins seized their partners and sprang them so high that their muslin coifs touched the ceiling. The mothers drank a final cup of coffee. The card-players watched the _sarabande_ through the dusty atmosphere by the uneven light of the smoking lamps. Mathurin and Félicité, sitting closer together, still talked on. But the daughter of La Seulière had suffered one of her hands to be taken between those of the cripple, and it was the huge hairy hands that trembled, and the little white hand that seemed not to understand, or to be unwilling to respond. The _ronde_ came to an end: "'Ah, tokens give I none,' said she, 'To barons gay like you, For chosen I am proud to be By Pierre, who serves us true.'" For the first time Félicité, looking at Mathurin said confidentially, with a laugh: "That song is Rousille's story." "Do you know what she wanted?" returned Mathurin hotly, "to marry our farm-servant; to become mistress of La Fromentière! But I was on the watch. I had that fellow Jean Nesmy turned out, and I swear to you it will be long before he dare show his face there again. And now...." Here he lowered his voice and bent forward until the tawny hair touched the outer rim of the muslin coif, which did not draw back--"And now, if you will still have me, Félicité, it is you who shall be the mistress of La Fromentière." She had not time to answer. She had risen, the last refrain of the _ronde_ had ended in a murmur of surprise. A man, whose white head towered above those of the assembled guests, had abruptly entered and advanced into the middle of the first room, without removing the hat he wore on his entrance, or making any salutation. His clothes were coated with ice; on his left arm he carried an old brown cloak that swept the ground as he walked. Severe of countenance, with eyes half closed from coming suddenly into the glare of light, he was evidently seeking someone. All made way for the farmer of La Fromentière, "Are my lads here?" he asked. "Yes, of course," returned a voice behind him. "Here I am, father."