“I do not know about such things,” he answered quietly, “but the autumn came early this year.” Rosaline looked dreamily away toward the north. “The winter with its terrible storms, and this cruel war,” she said thoughtfully,--“I fear the suffering will be very great, Charlot. How does it seem in Nîmes? What does M. Montrevel say?” “That it cannot last, mademoiselle,” he replied. “His Majesty has sent great reinforcements, and the maréchal is determined to crush the insurrection. Nothing is talked of in Nîmes save the grandeur of the king and the weakness of the Cévenols.” Rosaline sighed; her mood changed entirely now, and her face was grave and even apprehensive. There was no sound but the gentle dash of water from the falls. Presently her eyes lighted on the basket of ferns. “We have enough, Charlot,” she said, in a dull voice; “I am going back now. Come also, and Babet will give you supper; you must be tired.” Poor Charlot was at his wits’ end. “See, mademoiselle, there is a beautiful fern,” he said, pointing his finger at three waving plumes of green; “will you not have that also?” She looked at it without interest. “No,” she replied indifferently, “let it remain; we have more than enough already, and I am tired.” She was half-way up the bank, and Charlot rose in despair. “Mademoiselle,” he said, “come back, I pray you; ’tis not yet time to return to the château.” She looked around in surprise, and the expression of his face awakened her suspicions. “What is it?” she demanded quickly; “what do you mean?” “You were not to return until six o’clock,” he replied, at a loss for an excuse; “Madame de St. Cyr so instructed me.” “Madame de St. Cyr instructed you--about me?” exclaimed Rosaline in surprise; and there was a touch of hauteur in her manner that Charlot had never encountered before. “She told me so, when she sent me after you, mademoiselle,” he answered humbly. Rosaline was roused now; she stood looking at him with a searching glance. “Why did you come to St. Cyr to-day?” she demanded imperiously. The hunchback was not adroit, and he felt the peril of the moment too deeply to find ready replies. “I brought some shoes for madame to try,” he said lamely. “That is not true, Charlot!” she retorted indignantly; “madame has ordered no shoes, and you know it. You came for something,” she went on, with increasing agitation; “be honest,--was it--did it concern M. d’Aguesseau?” The shoemaker looked at her with dull eyes, his pinched face unusually brown and haggard. “Yes, mademoiselle,” he replied with an effort, “it concerned M. d’Aguesseau. M. de Baudri received information that he was a heretic, and he has come to St. Cyr to take him.” Mademoiselle turned on him the face of an avenging angel. “And you--” she said, with passionate scorn, “did you betray him?” The hunchback’s lips twitched, like those of a person in sudden bodily pain, and he did not reply.