When Rosaline came to herself it was with a bewildered recollection of some horrible event, and, for a few moments, she was scarcely conscious of her surroundings. Then she opened her eyes and tried to move, but she could not. She was in a sitting posture, her hands and feet tied, and a rope, slipped under her arms, held her securely against a wall behind her. The discovery of her situation roused all her dormant faculties, and she looked about her, trying to find out where she was. She saw above her head familiar rafters, and then she discovered the door closed opposite her, and recognized the old windmill, near which François and she had spent those hours of happiness, so cruelly interrupted. The light in the place was very dim, and the poor girl could not at first see plainly in all the corners. She thought herself alone and wondered where her captor was, and what was to come next. Then the hope that her cries might bring help began to rise in her heart, and she was on the point of screaming aloud, when a sound struck her ear that froze her blood in her veins. It was a laugh, but it sounded like a fiendish chuckle. It came from her right hand, and she turned her head quickly and looked into the face of Mère Tigrane. An exclamation of horror and fear burst from Rosaline’s heart, and she shrieked for help--help!--and the old fishwife laughed and rocked to and fro. She was sitting on an old log, in the dim corner, and she was quite undisturbed by her prisoner’s cries. “Shriek away, mademoiselle!” she said pleasantly. “Ciel! what a voice she has! But no one will hear you except dear old Mère Tigrane.” Rosaline’s heart sank; it might be too true, for they had arranged to avoid the mill because strangers sometimes strayed there. She must have been carried to it, in this fearful woman’s arms, for it was a considerable distance from the spot where she had fainted. She sank back against the wall with a groan; she knew it was useless to appeal to this horrible creature; just such wretched women made a living by informing against the Huguenots, and there was no mercy in them. Rosaline did not know what to do; it was useless to plead with Mère Tigrane, and it seemed useless, too, to hope for rescue; moreover, the girl had conceived such a horror of the old witch, such a scorn of her vileness, that she could not endure the sight of her. She closed her eyes and prayed silently, but she made no sign of begging for mercy. Her face was like a white rose in the dim light, and her hair lay in a pale aureole about her brow; but, with all her agony, she bore herself proudly. La Louve sat on her log and watched, gloating over her and running her red tongue along the edge of her lips. “Art comfortable, my lady-bird?” she asked amiably. “What! so proud that you will not speak to poor Mère Tigrane? And what do you suppose I intend to do with such a fine lady, eh?”