“There is not so much to tell, mademoiselle,” he said; “these wretches--the Camisards--still trouble us despite their defeat at Vagnas. If we could get the head of the brigand Cavalier all would be well. Has mademoiselle heard of M. le Maréchal’s dinner party? ’Tis amusing enough. M. Montrevel is in a bad humor; the villain Cavalier has cut up two detachments, as you know,--one at Ners, and one intended for Sommières. Thinking of these things and drinking wine--after dinner--M. le Maréchal was angry, and at the moment came tidings that these heretics were praying and howling in a mill on the canal, outside of the Porte-des-Carmes. _Mère de Dieu!_ you should have seen Montrevel. In a trice he had out a regiment of foot, and away he went to the mill. The soldiers surrounded it and broke open the door, and there sure enough were a lot of psalm-singers, about three hundred old men, women, and children--heretics all! The soldiers went in--ah, mademoiselle does not desire particulars; but truly it is slow work to cut three hundred throats, especially in such confusion. M. le Maréchal ordered them to fire the mill. _Mon Dieu!_ ’twas a scene! It burned artistically, and the soldiers drove back all who tried to escape. One rogue, M. Montrevel’s own servant too, saved a girl, but the maréchal ordered them both hung at once. He was begged off by some sisters of mercy, who unhappily came by just as they had the noose over his head, but the heretic had been hung already. ’Tis called M. Montrevel’s dinner party in Nîmes; and there is a saying that one must burn three hundred heretics before M. le Maréchal has an appetite.” Rosaline stood stroking the dove, her eyes averted. “What a pleasant story, monsieur,” she remarked coldly, “to tell out here in the warm sunshine! What do I want to know of those wretches dying in the flames?” and she flashed a sudden look of scorn upon him that brought a flush to his face. “Mademoiselle should have asked me to tell her the one story that I know by heart,” he replied, his voice and manner changing in an instant and full now of courtesy and propitiation. “And what is that, monsieur?” she asked shortly; the color was warm in her cheeks and her blue eyes flashed dangerously. “The old story of my love for you, Rosaline,” he said eagerly, advancing nearer the sundial, the flock of doves rising with a whir of wings as he approached. She was unmoved, however, only averting her face. “I have spoken to madame,” he added, “and now I speak to you.” “And what did Madame de St. Cyr say?” she demanded, giving him a questioning glance.