I held her back for a little, until the two had passed before us. As the light from the booth fell on them I saw that I was right--the last speaker was Camus, but the other man I knew not. "Now, across!" I said, as the two were lost in the crowd, and with that I hurried mademoiselle to the other side of the road. "Monsieur," she said, "these men were talking of us, of my people, I mean--I feel sure of it--and we are too late." "Not yet!" And I tried to reassure her, but my heart was full of misgiving. In its wonderful way her woman's instinct had warned her, and I, knowing what I did know, feared the worst despite all my assurances to her to the contrary. It was night when we reached the Rue des Mathurins, for the way was long. Narrow and dark, the street wound before us. On one side the upper storeys of the houses were white with moonlight; but the opposite side was in shadow, and all around us was a velvet darkness, except where, here and there, a lamp, hanging to a rope slung across the street, cast a feeble and uncertain glow. Some dim figures moved before us, and occasionally we heard a footfall behind. That was all. We had come to the fifth door on our right. It lay in the black darkness, faced by the huge blank wall of the Mathurins, and not a ray gleamed from any of the windows. All was silent as the grave. "This is the place," I said, and we stopped. "Are you sure?" whispered mademoiselle. "It looks deserted; perhaps they have been warned." But, even as she spoke, we heard faint voices singing. The sound seemed to rise from beneath our feet, and muffled and far distant rose the sweet, solemn chant of the Huguenot hymn: "When Israel went forth from Egypt." "They are there!" And mademoiselle's fingers tightened on my arm. For answer I was about to step up to the door when hurrying feet came towards us. I pulled mademoiselle back into the deepest shadow, and as I did so two dark figures appeared, and halted before the door. Like us, all unknowing we were so near, they stopped too, listening to the hymn, and after a little one of the two began to sing. "Hush!" said the other; but the singer answered fiercely: "I care not, nor do I fear to give my testimony to the Lord." But now the hymn ended, and the two went to the door. This was my chance, and so, with mademoiselle on my arm, I boldly stepped up and joined them. They turned on us as we came; but I allayed their fears. "Messieurs, we have come as you have. See! There is a lady with me." "Then you are well come," answered one, and with that he tapped softly at the door. A shutter opened, and a voice asked: "Why come ye?" "For the faith," was the reply.