“Did you think her demented?” asked Rosaline. “To me she seemed inspired, and surely she preached a wonderful sermon; still, as you say, she spoke wildly.” “I thought her demented,” he rejoined quietly; “there are so many of these young girls prophesying. It seems to me that it is more the result of suffering, of the horrible spectacles they have witnessed, than a touch of sacred inspiration.” “It may be so,” she admitted, reluctantly, “but surely such times as these might well produce prophets and soothsayers.” They were in sight of the château now and saw the light burning in Madame de St. Cyr’s room. She was too feeble to go out on such perilous expeditions and had remained behind in fear and trembling, praying for their safe return. When Babet opened the wicket-gate they were greeted by Truffe’s warning bark, and she was at the door to greet them with noisy joy. Rosaline and M. d’Aguesseau went to Madame de St. Cyr to tell her of the congregation, and Babet retired to her own domain to meditate in solitude on mademoiselle and their visitor. Rosaline recounted their visit to the quarry where the Camisards met, and old madame listened with eagerness, her pale face unusually animated. She wanted to hear everything, Cavalier’s speech, the sermon of the young girl,--one of the prophets of the Cévenols,--the prayer offered by one of the ministers, the psalms they sang. But she shook her head when she heard that Cavalier had sent word to M. Montrevel that for every Protestant village that the maréchal destroyed, he, Cavalier, would destroy two Papist villages. “’Twill be useless,” she said quietly; “the king will pour his soldiers upon us, and Languedoc will be laid waste; we cannot prevail against such power. My husband always said so, and my son. They used to say that if the Edict of Nantes should be revoked, the Protestants would soon be destroyed. It will be so--I have felt it from the first.” “Ah, _grand’mère_, you are not hopeful enough,” Rosaline said; “see what these two men--Cavalier and Roland--have already accomplished. Let us hope that England will help us.” Madame shook her head. “The world is selfish,” she said quietly; then she glanced at the clock. “Rosaline, call Babet,” she said; “’tis the hour for our devotions.” The housekeeper was summoned, while François looked carefully at the windows and saw that all the shutters were fastened. Then the little company joined in evening prayer, Madame de St. Cyr reading a chapter from the Bible. They did not sing; not even in that secluded spot did they dare to give voice to one of Marot’s psalms, for they did not know what ear might be listening in the night. When it was over the grandmother bade Rosaline good-night and sent her away with Babet, but she detained d’Aguesseau. When they were alone she turned to him with a sad face.