As he spoke, he opened his bag and took out two long cloaks and hoods similar to those worn by an order of Sisters of Charity at Nîmes. “Thou hast the mind of a great general, Charlot,” remarked Babet, with a queer smile; “the hump is a pity.” Rosaline roused herself and looked at the disguise. “Alas! where can we go, Charlot?” she asked sadly; “how can we escape them?” “To-night you can go to my shop, mademoiselle,” he replied, quietly, “and to-morrow, as soon as the gates are open, you can start out to St. Césaire. I have arranged with the blacksmith’s wife to hide you until I can guide you to--to a place of safety.” “It may be done,” Rosaline said, after a moment’s thought. “I was to have till eight to-morrow; there is one hope in a thousand--but the risk to you, Charlot!” The little hunchback smiled. “Mademoiselle,” he said quietly, “I am scarcely worth killing.” The tears shone in her blue eyes, but she said nothing, partly because Babet was hurriedly muffling her in the cloak and hood. A few moments later they emerged from the room, Babet carrying Truffle under her mantle; Charlot secured the door behind them, replacing the bar, and softly and cautiously they descended. They heard Père Ambroise speaking, in unctuous tones, and a coarse oath from M. de Baudri, on whom the wine was having some effect, but no one heard them. The porter had left his place and the door was unbolted. Almost without noise, the three slipped out and stood free upon the open street. CHAPTER XXI IN THE WOODS OF ST. CYR The next morning found Charlot in his shop. He had spread his tools and leather on his bench with a pretence of work, but he was not working. He sat watching his door with eager eyes, alert and impatient. He was waiting for the return of the blacksmith’s boy whom he had sent in search of d’Aguesseau. Rosaline and Babet had walked out of the gate of the town as soon as it was opened, and must be now near St. Césaire. In le Bossu’s chamber a candle burned before the Virgin, a prayer for the heretics; such is the inconsistency of the human heart and its religion. In a week the little hunchback had grown old, and his back seemed more pitifully bowed than ever. The Intendant of Languedoc might indeed regard him as scarcely worth the killing; but no man can see the naked soul of his brother, and it may be vastly different from his body; as different as the abode on earth is from the mansion in heaven. “It is sown in weakness; it is raised in power.” It is cast in the shape of a cripple on earth, it is raised in the form of an angel. The starved soul of le Bossu looked out of his patient eyes and saw not even a crumb of comfort falling from the rich man’s table, and self-sacrifice became the law of his life.