It was daybreak; the pale sky was luminous, and the golden east throbbed with the approaching glory. Already the hill-tops were radiant, but the low country lay in the shadow, and a white mist floated over the valleys. The air was full of the twittering of birds, and all the life in Nature began to stir. There were no travellers on the highroad so early, save one, a corpulent priest, mounted on a stout mule, proceeding toward St. Cyr. Père Ambroise detested extraordinary exertion, but he had yielded to the importunities of the cobbler. For his own part, he thought that ten o’clock was soon enough to deal with M. de Baudri, but he had roused himself and set out at an unearthly hour because of le Bossu’s representations. No man could regret the trouble at the château de St. Cyr more sincerely than he did; he had labored to protect these two defenceless women, and he saw no profit in madame’s arrest. Père Ambroise would never be numbered with the persecutors; he cared more for a bottle of good wine from the vintage of the Vaunage than he did for the arrest of a score of heretics. Besides, he had no real love for M. de Baudri, and he foresaw M. de Baudri’s triumph. Père Ambroise wanted to convert Rosaline; he wanted to see her either in a convent or wedded to a good son of the Church, but he could not digest the prospect of this particular bridegroom. He had not the smallest respect for Rosaline’s religious convictions or scruples; it was impossible for him to regard them with anything but contempt or hatred, but he really cared for the girl’s welfare. He had known her from a child, and he felt a sincere affection for her. For her sake he had spared Madame de St. Cyr, and he had no desire now to give her pain. He rode along, therefore, revolving all these matters in his mind, and wondering how far he could trespass on the patience and friendship of the Intendant of Languedoc,--the only man who could take M. de Baudri in hand. The result of Père Ambroise’s ruminations was not satisfactory; he advanced at a leisurely pace, for his mule was nearly as stout as he was, and the sun rose in all its splendor as he approached St. Cyr. He disliked effort and excitement, and he could devise no easy and comfortable way out of the dilemma. After all, perhaps she would have to marry M. de Baudri; at least, that ought to bring her into the church, and if she remained a heretic? Well, Père Ambroise reflected with a broad smile, that alternative would furnish him with a rod to hold over the stubborn head of M. le Capitaine. The good father’s fat sides shook a little with silent laughter as he drew rein at the gate of the château. _Âme de St. Denis!_ he would make M. de Baudri dance to a pretty tune before the Intendant; there were compensations, no matter what the result.