D’Aguesseau rose and went to the window and, unfastening the shutter, looked out. The moon was struggling to shine through drifting clouds; one moment the world was lighted, the next it lay in darkness. In one of these intervals of illumination he saw the scene without plainly enough. The garden lay below the window, and beyond was a view of the highroad, the sloping plain, and farther off the village of St. Césaire. He could hear the sound of marching men, and as he looked they came in sight on the road, filing slowly past the château, line after line, their weapons gleaming in the moonshine. He watched them curiously; these were not the dragoons,--he could distinguish the rough and ragged appearance of the men even from a distance. He closed the shutter and turned toward the women with a flush on his face; his opportunity was at hand. “They are passing the château,” he said, in a reassuring tone, “I will go out and ascertain who they are. I think I cannot be mistaken in them.” Rosaline’s blue eyes kindled. “Are they Camisards?” she demanded. “I think so,” he replied as he left the room. The next moment they heard him go out, and Rosaline went to the window to watch. Madame de St. Cyr’s face was very pale. “They may be Florentines,” she said, “and if so--we shall scarcely escape them.” “They have halted,” her granddaughter replied from the window. “The clouds have drifted wide apart now and the night is as white as that night which frightened you, Babet. M. d’Aguesseau has gone out to them.” “The _bon Dieu_ defend us!” murmured madame; “the times are very evil;” and she fell to praying silently. Babet was kneeling on the floor, with Truffe’s head smothered in her apron to hush the dog’s bark. Rosaline leaned against the window frame looking out, the moonlight outlining her slender figure. “M. d’Aguesseau talks with one of them,” she said. “_Ciel!_ how ghastly their faces look in this light--like chalk--and I see everywhere the flash of steel.” “Can you make out who they are?” asked her grandmother, in a tremulous voice. “Nay,” she replied, “but M. d’Aguesseau is friendly with them,--I can see that; he has shaken hands with one who seems to be a leader.” “It is well,” said madame, in a tone of relief; “they must be of our people.” The night was very still and the three women listened, but they did not distinguish the words that were spoken, though they heard the voices. “Does M. d’Aguesseau still speak with them?” the old woman asked. “He is coming back alone,” Rosaline replied in a low tone; and she did not leave her post when she heard him coming up the stairs. He entered the room quietly, though he had his sword in his hand.