She spoke sadly, and there was an implied reproach in her words which smote me. I took her hand and pressed it warmly. “You forget, mademoiselle,” I said, “that your safety is dear to Zénaïde and to me. Do you think that Philippe de Brousson forgets old friends?” The tears came into the excellent woman’s eyes. “Ah, Philippe,” she said sorrowfully, “I am one of the unfortunates of this world who usually get only the crumbs from the rich man’s table, and it touches me to be remembered. But you were ever true-hearted. I cannot look at you, broad-shouldered, bronzed man that you are, without seeing the little fair-haired boy playing among the roses in the garden of the château.” “Keep the memory fresh, mademoiselle,” I said lightly; “think of me ever at my best.” She went back to her room, and for a little while I was left to my reflections, and then she came again to the door. “I hear a noise of some kind,” she said, with some excitement in her voice. “It comes from the streets, and is like the sound of some great disturbance. What can it be?” Her first words had raised the hope that our rescuers were at hand; and, even failing that, I was eager to catch every murmur from the outside world. We both went to the narrow window, and listened. It was now dark, and we could not even see the wall, which served to dull the sounds coming to us on the night wind; it was a deep, low murmur, like the growling of a tempest, far off, but unmistakable. We listened intently; both of us had the same thought. “It must be a riot,” mademoiselle exclaimed, a thrill of excitement in her voice. It was the twenty-fourth of May, 1682, and we were listening to the first rumblings of the storm that was to break on the morrow upon the Kremlin, and in a few hours work a mighty change. “That is the sound of a multitude,” I remarked as we stood there, so anxious and so helpless. “I know that trouble has been brewing for weeks, and it may culminate to-night.” “Holy Virgin!” ejaculated mademoiselle, “what will become of my poor lamb?”