They walked as rapidly as they could in the darkness, and leaving the trees behind turned sharply to the right across an arid plain that presented many rough and broken places, and where Rosaline required d’Aguesseau’s helping hand and his cautious guidance. Then they followed the dry bed of a stream, walking over stones and sand, always avoiding the highroad, but making their way steadily toward St. Cyr. “It seems a long distance,” Rosaline said at last with a sigh. “Long and dangerous for you,” François answered gently; “I would that we could have persuaded you to remain at home, mademoiselle.” “Surely you would not have robbed me of such a consolation?” she said reproachfully. “Nay,” he replied, in a low voice, “you know that I would do anything to serve you, but this was a terrible risk. MM. de Bâville and Montrevel are both watchful; both suspect that these religious meetings are held in the neighborhood, and at any time the troops may descend upon that old quarry; and there would be no quarter.” “Yet we must serve God, monsieur,” Rosaline said, “even as Daniel did--in peril of the lion’s den; and as the prophet of Israel was delivered, surely the remnant of this people will be also delivered. Truly, monsieur, I would rather cast in my lot with these peasants, _enfants de Dieu_, than live as I do. But my grandmother is too old and too feeble for the wild life of the Cévenols, and so I go on--a Papist in Nîmes, a Protestant at heart.” “You would join these people, mademoiselle, yet you have argued against me when I have proposed to go to the Cévennes.” “You are under a pledge to go to England,” she returned promptly; “you have suffered enough. The time will come quickly for all of us, I suppose. I do not believe that this deception can go on. If the soldiers had found us to-night, I wonder if any of us would have escaped!” “_Mon Dieu!_” he murmured softly, “how terrible it would have been. The sentinels told me that there were two hundred and fifty women and children there, besides the men who came with Cavalier.” “It would have been death,” she said dreamily; “we can die but once, monsieur.” “You would not have died,” he answered sternly, “while I had a life to give for yours.” She was silent, but he felt her hand quiver in his. He could not see her face, nor could she see his, but each felt the other’s deep emotion. They walked on, treading carefully; they were skirting the edge of a field of rye on the border of the village of St. Césaire, but they had yet to cross a rocky elevation before they could reach the château. To the left, the lights of the hamlet twinkled like fallen stars, and they heard the dogs baying in the distance.