Meanwhile le Bossu went back through the woods. His heart was full, but he was not without a feeling of joy. So far she was safe, and he had just given Babet all his savings. His years of patient labor had not been in vain if his money could help Rosaline now. He would have liked to speak to her, to touch her hand; but what was he? _Le Bossu, le savetier_, the beggarly cripple of St. Antoine! It was enough, and more than enough, to serve her. _Dieu!_ would his wretched lameness keep him from reaching the windmill before the dragoons? He walked fast, urging his energies to the utmost, but the way seemed long indeed. A picture of her in her lover’s arms, with the sunshine on her hair, rose before his eyes and he set his teeth. What was it to him? He was only a hunchbacked cobbler, he could scarcely be made of the same clay that they were, yet his starved soul cried out. Now and then he stooped down and listened, but the place was silent save for the rustling of the wind amid the dead leaves; winter was coming. At last, the mill! He did not pause after assuring himself that la Louve was still secure; he fastened the door as tightly as he could and sped on toward the château. Fortune smiled upon him; he was just in time. Not twenty yards away he came upon M. de Baudri and a couple of dragoons. The hunchback was halted by a sharp challenge, but the soldiers looked indifferent when they recognized him. Their commander was in a black temper, and he ordered the cobbler to approach. “What are you doing here, Petit Bossu?” he demanded fiercely. “Out with all you know, or--” He drew his hand expressively across his throat. Charlot assumed an attitude of profound respect, his eyes on the ground. “I am monsieur’s humblest servant,” he said. “I have been over yonder to sell my shoes in St. Césaire, and I came here to look about--monsieur understands, the place is open, the house of heretics; the poor cobbler thought to find some trifle left by the soldiers.” “It would be a devilish small thing if they left it!” retorted M. de Baudri, with a grim smile. “Look, you little beast, no trifling--these heretics have escaped. Have you seen them?” The cobbler assumed an air of importance. “My life is valuable to me, monsieur,” he said, “and if I tell, the Camisards may kill me, as they kill the curés; nevertheless, for the sake of my soul-- Monsieur, will the Intendant pay?” “_Diable!_” shouted de Baudri; “pay! I can pay if I choose, but I’ll shoot you if you trifle.” “I will guide you, monsieur,” the cobbler replied, with a stubborn air, “but I will have pay for the risk,--a hundred crowns.” De Baudri burst out with a volley of oaths, but he flung some money at the hunchback. “There is some, beast,” he said coarsely; “and you shall have the rest if you find the girl,--Rosaline de St Cyr.” The cobbler gathered up the money and counted it with greedy fingers, M. de Baudri watching him with scornful eyes.