The Marquise d'Esclignac, under the stars, interviewed the native soldier, the beggar, the man in rags, at the foot of the veranda. There was a moon as well as stars, and the man was distinctly visible in all his squalor. "What on earth is he talking about, Robert?" "About Sabron, _marraine_," said her godson laconically. The Marquise d'Esclignac raised her lorgnon and said: "Speak, man! What do you know about Monsieur de Sabron? See, he is covered with dirt--has leprosy, probably." But she did not withdraw. She was a great lady and stood her ground. She did not know what the word "squeamish" meant. Listening to the man's jargon and putting many things together, Tremont at last turned to the Marquise d'Esclignac who was sternly fixing the beggar with her haughty condescension: "_Marraine_, he says that Sabron is alive, in the hands of natives in a certain district where there is no travel, in the heart of the seditious tribes. He says that he has friends in a caravan of merchants who once a year pass the spot where this native village is." "The man's a lunatic," said the Marquise d'Esclignac calmly. "Get Abimelec and put him out of the garden, Robert. You must not let Julia hear of this." "_Marraine_," said Tremont quietly, "Mademoiselle Redmond has already seen this man. He has come to see her to-night." "How perfectly horrible!" said the Marquise d'Esclignac. Then she asked rather weakly of Tremont: "Don't you think so?" "Well, I think," said Tremont, "that the only interesting thing is the truth there may be in what this man says. If Sabron is a captive, and he knows anything about it, we must use his information for all it is worth." "Of course," said the Marquise d'Esclignac, "of course. The war department must be informed at once. Why hasn't he gone there?" "He has explained," said Tremont, "that the only way Sabron can be saved is that he shall be found by outsiders. One hint to his captors would end his life." "Oh!" said the Marquise d'Esclignac. "I don't know what to do, Bob! What part can we take in this?" Tremont pulled his mustache. Mimi had circled round the beggar, snuffing at his slippers and his robe. The man made no objection to the little creature, to the fluffy ball surrounded by a huge bow, and Mimi sat peacefully down in the moonlight, at the beggar's feet. "Mimi seems to like him," said the Marquise d'Esclignac helplessly, "she is very particular." "She finds that he has a serious and convincing manner," said Tremont. Now the man, who had been a silent listener to the conversation, said in fairly comprehensible English to the Marquise d'Esclignac: "If the beautiful grandmother could have seen the Capitaine de Sabron on the night before the battle--"