A company of dragoons were filing along the road, the even gait of the cavalry horses keeping the whole line swinging on to the sound of the bugle. The gay uniforms were soiled and there were powder stains, and in the centre of the troop were six prisoners,--grim-looking men, in the garb of peasants with the blouse of the Camisards, and bound, their arms tied behind their backs and their feet tied under the bellies of their horses. At the sight of them Rosaline drew back with a shudder, but it was too late; M. de Baudri had seen her and drew rein, saluting her with unruffled composure. As he paused, the cavalcade halted opposite the gate, bringing the prisoners in full view of the château. They did not look to the right or left, however, but stared grimly before them. Of the six, five were wounded, and the blood flowed from an unbandaged wound on one man’s head. Faint from the loss of it, he reeled in his saddle, but uttered no complaint. Meanwhile M. de Baudri sat erect on his spirited horse, his head uncovered, his rich uniform spotless, and his periwig freshly curled. He looked smilingly into Rosaline’s pale face. “A fair good morning, my Rose of Languedoc,” he said gallantly, speaking too low for the ears of his dragoons; “I count it fortunate when even my duty takes me past your door.” She curtsied, her blue eyes looking straight before her and her lips firmly closed. She was controlling herself with a mighty effort. “Monsieur has surely unpleasant duties,” she said formally. “The gayest in the world,” he replied with a careless laugh. “We have cleaned out a cave full of Barbets this morning, and hung the leader because he had the boldness to be shot in action. We swung his dead body on a chestnut-tree--it hangs there with the burrs ready to ripen. _Nom de St. Denis!_” he added, with a glance at his prisoners, “these fellows would have been lucky to hang there too!” Rosaline could endure no more. “_Mon Dieu!_” she cried, “are you human? Can you see that poor man bleed to death?” De Baudri turned in his saddle and stared indifferently at the sufferer. “A heretic, mademoiselle,” he remarked, with a gesture of disdain; “what would you?” “I would bind his wounds!” she retorted, taking a step nearer the gate; but the sight had sickened her, the scene swam before her eyes, she reeled, and would have fallen but for François, who had been standing a few yards behind her, and who now sprang forward and caught her in his arms. “Why do you exhibit such cruelties to her?” he demanded sharply, looking over her head into de Baudri’s eyes. The latter had made a motion as if to spring from the saddle at the sight of Rosaline’s white face, but now he straightened himself and returned the other’s look with disdain. “So!” he said with a sneer, “the menial turns into a champion. _Mère de Dieu_, Sir Camisard, we will be pleased to accommodate you in Nîmes.”