"I soon shall be," answered the old man calmly. "Happily for me, I am more than seventy years old, and my prison-doors must soon be opened. Then I shall receive my reward; but you—ah, Henri, my former pupil, whom I so loved, how will it be with you? Oh, repent, while there is yet time! There is mercy even for the denier and the apostate!" For all answer, my uncle, transported with rage, lifted his cane and struck the old man a severe blow. The very criminals cried shame upon him, and the young officer in charge hastened to the spot, and with expressions of pity offered his own handkerchief to the poor old man, whose brow was cut and bleeding. "Well," said my uncle, turning to me, and seeing, I suppose, what I thought, "how do you like the way your former friends are treated? How would you like to share their lot?" "I would rather be that old man than you, monsieur!" I returned, on fire with indignation. "I would rather be the helpless prisoner than the coward that abuses him!" "Coward!" repeated my uncle, white with rage. "Dastard, if you like it better!" I returned, reckless of consequences. "To strike a helpless man is cowardly; to strike an old and feeble man is dastardly!" Monsieur de Fayrolles, like others of his stamp, was easily put down when any one stood up to him. I have seen him fairly outfaced by his own valet. He muttered something between his teeth. MY aunt, who, to do her justice, was greatly shocked, put a little money into the old man's hand, and the carriage moved on. We arrived at Marseilles about noon, and my heart bounded with joy as I saw in the harbor a ship with English colors. Could it be that I was to be sent back to England after all? I was soon undeceived. We drove through the town to a convent which stood by itself, surrounded as usual with a high wall. Here the carriage stopped. My uncle and aunt alighted, and were admitted by the portress, and I remained in the carriage with Susanne. A number of men who looked like carpenters were returning from their work, and passed us, glancing at the carriage as they did so. "Here is another of the king's passenger birds!" I heard one of them say. I was trying to think what he could mean, when a sort of overseer who was following the men looked at me, stopped, and called me by name. It was my foster-brother, David Sablot. "Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!" said Susanne. "Ah, Susanne, it is my foster-brother, perhaps the last friend I shall over see," I pleaded. "Let me speak to him for but one moment." "Speak quickly, then," said Susanne, and with that she turned her back to me and began looking out of the window. "I thought you were safe in England, Vevette," said David, in English. "What brings you here?"