Presently, however, she heard a horse stop at the gate, and peeping cautiously through her screen of ivy, saw M. de Baudri, resplendent in gold lace, coming up to the house. An ill-enough omen at such a time, she thought, and remained at her post, refusing to go down when Babet was sent for her. She heard his voice, smooth and pleasant, in the room below, and after a while she saw him go away again, sitting very erect in his saddle, the picture of a soldier. After his departure she found Madame de St. Cyr sad and nervous. He had told her of the skirmish with Cavalier, speaking of the affair with contempt. The dragoons had beaten off the Camisards, killed twenty and taken sixteen wounded prisoners. He had come to press his suit again and to covertly threaten Madame de St. Cyr. The old woman did not tell all to Rosaline; she dared not. But the girl read much in the anxious eyes that followed her as she moved about, waiting on her grandmother, for she had sent Babet to Nîmes, to learn from Charlot, if possible, the names of the prisoners, the list of the dead. It would be an infinitely difficult task to learn this without suspicion; but if any one could help them, the little cobbler could, and he was known to be of the king’s religion. Never did a day drag more wearily, but at last the sun descended toward the west, the shadows lengthened, and Rosaline’s doves came cooing to their rest. Babet had not returned yet from Nîmes. Madame de St. Cyr had her supper, served by her granddaughter, and then Rosaline went out with Truffe. She walked slowly through the garden, where the autumn had already laid its fingers, and then she passed out into the grove of mulberry trees, where the path led to the old windmill. The sun had set, and the clouds were red and purple overhead, and between them were great rifts of pale blue. The mulberry leaves rustled softly; but save for that it was still. The air was chill, and the openings between the trees made broad avenues of light and shade. Rosaline had walked but a little way, when the dog sprang forward with a quick, short bark of welcome, and she saw a man coming toward her. At the sight of his face she stood still, her own turning from white to red. A moment ago she had thought of him as perhaps lying in some loathsome dungeon in Nîmes, or dead, and this sudden meeting took away her self-control; she was trembling when he came up. Looking at her, he read more in her eyes than he had dared to hope for. “I have come to assure myself of your safety, mademoiselle,” he said quietly, “and then to go away again.” “Babet is in Nîmes now, monsieur, trying to find out the names of the prisoners,” Rosaline replied. “We did not know what had happened and we feared the worst.” “It was a short, sharp battle,” he said. “We took some ammunition, but they brought up reinforcements from Nîmes and we were forced to fall back. Cavalier is a soldier, indeed.”