Mère Tigrane shook her head, wagging it slowly from side to side. “No,” she replied, “I hate you for living; I hate all men and all women and all children. I would blast them if I could; I live on hatred! _Mère de Dieu!_ how I love to see a heretic burn!” Rosaline closed her eyes with a shudder, and la Louve sat looking at her thoughtfully, with a greedy eye. _Dame!_ but she would make money out of this dainty morsel. She had an eye for beauty, and she knew its market value. She was even content to let her victim rest a little, while she turned over in her own mind many business matters. She could not get the girl back to Nîmes before night, for she had no intention of having her prize snatched from her by any adventurer upon the road. She was not without uneasiness too, for M. de Baudri might yet come to St. Cyr, and, if he did, his search would be thorough and she was likely to lose her pay. Yet her scheme had worked so far like a charm. She had seen Babet and Rosaline leave Nîmes; their disguise had not deceived her ferret eyes, and she had tracked them to St. Césaire and from St. Césaire to the château, for she possessed the patient watchfulness of a fiend. Her success had surpassed her most sanguine hopes, and she gloated over it with savage delight. She knew that she was strong enough to deal with Babet, and for the present she looked for no other interference. The silence that had fallen upon the little mill was almost more oppressive to Rosaline than the hag’s dreadful talk; the girl felt as if she could not endure it longer, her heart throbbed heavily, there was a choking sensation in her throat and it seemed as if she could not draw another breath. And then she struggled in her bonds and shrieked aloud, for she heard Truffe’s short bark. Her scream was answered just as Mère Tigrane sprang upon her and thrust a rag into her mouth as a gag. The fishwife was furious, though she expected no one but Babet. “_Dame!_” she ejaculated, drawing a knife from her bosom, “I’ll make short work of the woman and the cur!” The mill door had stood open too long on rusty hinges to be easily secured, and she had only been able to lay an old timber across it. She took her position therefore, ready to strike, just as the door was shaken from without and pushed heavily inward. It resisted the first attempt, and she burst out into shrill laughter; but a second push sent the timber rolling back a foot, and the third opened the door wide enough to admit--not Babet, but the cobbler. Mère Tigrane, taken by surprise, withheld her knife, but when Babet followed him she struck a vicious blow at le Bossu. “_Diable!_” she shrieked. “_Petit Bossu!_ take yourself off--this is my game!” Charlot quietly thrust his hand into his breast and drew out a pistol, levelling it at the hag’s head. “If you move one finger,” he said grimly, “you are dead. Babet, take her knife and loose mademoiselle.”