“You knew a great deal about it,” she remarked maliciously; “couldn’t you warn us?” He sighed; a weary resignation was settling down on his heart. It seemed that no one thought well of him, or expected good from him. “I knew nothing of it until this morning,” he said coldly, “and then too late to help you. I am lame, and M. de Baudri rides a fine horse. Nevertheless, I got here five minutes before him--but that was too late.” His face and his voice began to convince even Babet, and a faint pang of remorse smote her heart, which, after all, was angered only on Rosaline’s account. She left off questioning him and walked to and fro in the kitchen, trying to collect her thoughts, and the process was much impeded by the even tramp of the sentry, which sounded distinctly enough on the gravel path outside the windows. Once or twice, when the soldier’s back was turned, Babet shook her fist at it, uttering threats in language that was more fervent than pious. “My poor lamb!” she muttered, her thoughts returning to Rosaline, “what will she do in the hands of this wolf? _Nom de Ciel!_ if I could but tear his throat!” The hunchback did not heed her; he was staring at the floor with vacant eyes. He meant to save mademoiselle if he could, but how? His lips moved now and then, and his brown hands twitched nervously, but his ears were straining to catch the slightest sound. Presently Babet turned around, as if a sudden thought had flashed upon her; she picked up the tongs from beside the fire, and hiding them under her apron walked deliberately out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. The sound brought the sentry at a run, and they met face to face. Without a word, Babet lifted the tongs, and, snapping them on to the brim of his hat, flung it over the hedge. “There, you varlet!” she exclaimed, holding the tongs close to the end of his nose, “learn to take off your hat to a decent woman, who’s old enough to be your mother, and stop staring in the window with those goggle eyes of yours. I’m no jail-bird, I tell you!” “Mother!” ejaculated the astonished dragoon, “you old gray cat! _Dame!_ if I do not wring your neck for your impudence when M. le Capitaine has gone.” “Humph!” retorted Babet, grimly, “you’ll find it tough, _mon fils_. Your hat is in the briar bush, my lad;” and she walked back into the house with a grim smile of triumph, leaving the soldier cursing her while he searched for his hat.