“Madame,” he said, “I came back to reassure you. These men are Camisards, led by Cavalier himself, and they are on their way to cut off a train of ammunition that is leaving Nîmes for St. Hippolyte. There will be a fight, but not very near here, I trust, and I believe you will be in safety. For myself, madame, I go with them.” The old woman clasped her hands and leaned back in her chair. “Alas!” she said, “I sent out my two soldiers to die for their king, and I cannot bid you stay, since you go to fight in the cause of the King of kings, but I grieve to part with you thus.” He took her hand and kissed it. “Madame,” he said, “you have been as good to me as a mother, in my extremity, and I will not forget your kindness. May God give me the opportunity to requite it. I must strike a good blow in the cause of my brethren, but I shall not forget my duty to you--and yours.” Tears fell on her white cheeks, and she gave him her blessing. Leaving her, he walked over to the window where the young girl had remained motionless as a statue, her face set toward the scene without. “Mademoiselle,” he said very low, “I bid you adieu. I know that you have thought me lacking in the spirit to fight--but believe me, it was not cowardice that held me at St. Cyr.” She looked up at him, her blue eyes clear and fearless. “The cause is sacred,” she said. “I--I am glad that--” She broke off, and he filled up the sentence. “Glad that I have the courage to go,” he said coldly. “I never doubted that,” she replied gravely; “but oh, monsieur, if I could be a man, I would fight--I can understand how you feel--the _bon Dieu_ defend you!” He looked at her a moment sadly, and seemed to hesitate; then he turned and went quietly away, leaving her standing there tongue-tied, her eyes suddenly filled with hot tears. What had she done? she thought, as he went down and out into the night. What had she done? Her grandmother’s voice roused her. “Has he gone to them?” she asked anxiously. “Yes,” Rosaline replied, “and they are forming in columns again,--they are going to march on.” There was a pause; the women could hear that there were some orders given and then it was strangely quiet, the men standing like statues in the road. The clouds drifted over the moon and darkness enveloped the scene again, and out of that still night arose the murmur of many voices, a volume of sound, throbbing and gaining strength and sweetness and solemnity. “Hush!” said Rosaline, raising her hand, “the Sixty-eighth Psalm--the battle hymn.” Full and strong it rose, every word poured out from the hearts of those stern men, and in that lonely spot, in the darkness, the sound was profoundly solemn. Softly at first, and then sweetly and fearlessly, Rosaline joined them, her rich young voice floating out to mingle with the song of the soldiers.