He smiled. “You are but a child, Rosaline,” he said; “you will embrace my religion and marry me, or--” he shrugged his shoulders,--“the Tour de Constance for madame and the gallows for your ex-lover. I give you a free choice!” Rosaline clasped her hands against her heaving bosom, looking up, while the tears fell on her pale cheeks. “_Mon Dieu!_” she cried; “forgive me for kneeling to mortal man. I ought to have known that there was no mercy save in Thee. Alas, alas, my dear ones!” There was a pause; she seemed to be absorbed in her devotions, and M. de Baudri watched her in silence but with relentless eyes. Her beauty and her sorrow only intensified his fierce passion. “I see that you are willing to kill both rather than sacrifice your whim,” he remarked, striking a skilful blow at her tottering resolution. “Is it possible that this is your fixed purpose?” she cried. “Can it be that you would have me save them thus? Have you no pride, that you are willing to take a bride on such terms as these? Have you no mercy?” “I am showing much,” he replied suavely. “How many men would spare a successful rival’s neck?” “It will avail nothing,” she said passionately. “I will appeal to M. de Bâville himself!” He laughed heartlessly. “Do so, mademoiselle,” he said, with a shrug, “and you will have the pleasure of seeing your lover broken on the wheel like his father.” She gave a low cry of horror, hiding her face in her hands. He walked over to the window and looked out. The sun was setting behind the valley of the Vaunage, and the wind was already blowing the yellow leaves from the trees and strewing the garden path with a shower of gold. He knew that she was in the throes of a mortal agony, and he did not dream of relaxing the pressure until he broke her will. He knew something of her character, and he believed her capable of any sacrifice for those she loved. He stood a while watching his orderly leading his horse to and fro before the gate. He had purposely deceived her on one point, and he believed that he would succeed without violence, but he intended to have her at any cost. With her consent if he could, without it, if necessary, he was not troubled with many scruples, and her helpless anguish did not touch him. He turned at last to find her sitting in her grandmother’s chair, her face buried in her hands, and her golden hair, escaping its bonds, had fallen about her like a mantle. “I am going back to Nîmes, mademoiselle,” he said courteously, “and I regret that I have to leave the house in the hands of guards, but they are instructed to treat you with courtesy. Permit me to recommend that you continue your former prudent reserve in the matter of religion. At ten to-morrow morning, I shall return for my answer. You know the solitary condition, and you hold two lives in your lovely hands.” She looked up with ineffable scorn in her blue eyes. “_Dieu!_ is this a man?” she exclaimed.