‘Look at me,’ he said, in the same bantering tone; ‘can your pestilent little village produce so wealthy and promising a lover as me? Your Jacques and Jeans have but a few liards in their purses, and can only offer you a pinchbeck ring; but I’--he disengaged one hand, whilst he felt in his pocket and produced a purse; ‘whilst I--Ha! listen to the chink, chink, chink! You do not know the language of money, do you? Well, I will interpret; chink, chink--that means silk dresses, satin shoes, dainty meats, and sweet bonbons. Now then!’ he exclaimed, as she made a struggle to escape. ‘Now then,’ repeated Thomas Lindet, who, quick as thought, strode between the man and his prey. He released the child; and placing her beside him, with a lip that curled with scorn, he removed his huge shovel hat, and bowing almost double, with a sweep of the hat, said, ‘M. Berthier! the little one and I bid you good evening!’ Then he drew back, extending his arm and hat as an ægis over the girl. The gentleman stood as if petrified, and looked at them. He was a tall man, largely made, very big-boned, with his hair powdered and fastened behind by a black silk bow. His face was closely shaven, the nose short, the upper lip very long and arched. But the most conspicuous feature of his face were his eyes, set in red and raw sockets. As he stood and looked at the priest, he mechanically drew a handkerchief from his pocket, and proceeded with a corner of it to wipe the tender lids. His coat was of maroon velvet edged and frogged with gold braid, his waistcoat was of white satin, and his hat was three-cornered and covered with lace. He wore a rapier at his side; and he was evidently a man of distinction. ‘Come, Lebertre, my friend,’ said Lindet, cheerfully, without taking any more notice of the gentleman; ‘I will accompany you and help to protect this damsel.’ The girl had lost one of her sabots, but in the excess of her fear she walked along unconscious of her loss. The curé of La Couture strode on one side of her, and the priest of Bernay paced on the other, supporting her with their hands, for her limbs shook with agitation, and, if unassisted, she would have fallen. ‘I know her,’ said Lebertre to his friend, ‘she is little Gabrielle André, and lives down by the river with her father, who is a farmer of the Abbey.’ Lindet looked across at his companion, with a glad light dancing in his eyes, and raising one hand heavenwards he exclaimed: ‘Did I not say that the Church in all her members suffers and bleeds? Would, dear friend, that, as we have rescued this poor child out of the hands of a betrayer, we might also rescue the poor Church from her seducers!’ Lebertre did not answer; but after a while he said solemnly, and with an air of deep conviction: ‘Lindet! did you mark how, at the cry of the child, the head of the Christ shook and frowned?’ CHAPTER II.