“I fear that trouble is brewing, monsieur,” she said quietly; “the very presence of Cavalier near Nîmes increases our perils, and there too are the Florentines,--the White Camisards, as they call themselves,--ruffians, in fact, banded together to hunt us down. I see nothing but danger and death on every side. For myself, I no longer fear,” she added with sorrowful dignity; “I know that I have but a little while to live, and I would die right cheerfully for my religion, but Rosaline--_mon Dieu!_” she clasped her hands and looked up. “Madame, if I can protect her--” began François. “That is what I would pray for, monsieur,” she said. “If I am taken, will you aid Babet to get her out of France?” “I would give my life for hers!” he answered gravely. The old woman looked up at his resolute face, at the light in his eyes, and bowed her own face in her hands. “Madame de St. Cyr,” he said quietly, “I do solemnly pledge myself to defend her--to take her away to a place of safety--to fight for her as long as I live myself.” She looked up through her tears. “I thank the _bon Dieu_!” she said. “To-day men are like wolves toward our lambs. You see how gentle, how innocent the child is.” She held out her thin, white hand and he took it, and pressed it to his lips. “Forgive me,” he said gently, “I love her.” The old face quivered and flushed a little, but she was touched. “I know not how the child may feel,” she said simply, “but I knew your family, and--I am content that it should be so. Heaven may have sent you to be her defender, for I do greatly fear that the hour of danger draws nigh.” CHAPTER XII THE FINGER OF FATE The months of the terrible summer of 1703 waned, and autumn came. Fire and sword had laid waste in Languedoc. It had been a reign of terror. The chieftains of the Camisards sweeping down from the Cévennes carried the war almost to the sea; priests were slain, Catholic villages burned. On the other side, the king’s soldiers poured into the devoted country, and the Huguenots were hunted far and wide. The galleys at Marseilles were crowded, the jails were packed, the gallows in constant use; the women and children were sent to convents and prisons, and the desolate country threatened famine, with no man to till the soil, and no woman to bind the sheaves. Still it went on, that cruel war for religion’s sake, and the blood of the innocent was poured out as a libation.