The sun was sinking over the valley of the Vaunage, and its rays shone on the towers and spires of Nîmes and sparkled on the polished steel of the soldiers’ accoutrements. The hills were purple against the November sky, and clouds drifted overhead. Autumn had stripped the landscape of much of its beauty, and the arid plains about them showed but little verdure save a low growth of juniper bushes. It was not a spot to afford many places of concealment, and as the little troop advanced, M. de Baudri’s keen eyes swept the scene with the savage glance of a vulture seeking its prey. CHAPTER XXIV “O DEATH, WHERE IS THY STING?” An hour later the dusty little cavalcade filed slowly up a steep and rocky hill and drew rein beside a strip of woodland on the summit. On every side the country rolled away, barren and broken with crags; here and there a low growth of juniper bushes or a solitary fig tree, where the soil was more fertile. The dragoons dismounted at M. de Baudri’s command and surrounded the spot. It would be impossible for any one to escape down that bare hillside unseen. De Baudri’s eyes burned fiercely; he thought his prey within his grasp. Le Bossu was lame from the long and weary walk, and his drawn face was white, but his expression was full of content. “A whole hour,” he said to himself. “Please God she is out of reach!” He obeyed a motion of M. de Baudri’s hand and led the way into the wood. It was not thick and there was but little underbrush, for even here the ground was rocky and uncharitable. He looked about as he walked, as if he wanted to remember even little things now; almost all the trees were chestnuts, these and mulberries growing best in the neighborhood of Nîmes. He noticed the moss and the lichens, and here and there a wild vine trailed across the way. The wind blew keenly now from the north, and overhead the gray clouds hung low, but the west was glorious, the sun hanging just above the horizon. The hunchback noted all these things, and he heard the heavy tread of the men behind him, the rattle of M. de Baudri’s sword. He walked on; a great peace was filling his soul, his pulses throbbed evenly, he lifted his head; his life was, after all, worth much,--it was to pay her ransom. He came to the centre of the wood and sat down on a large rock; before him the trees parted and he could look straight toward the west, the whole landscape at his feet. He drew M. de Baudri’s money from his wallet and cast it on the ground. A suspicion had been dawning upon de Baudri since they had dismounted, and he halted now and stared fiercely from the cobbler to the despised coins, the price of blood. “_Sang de Dieu!_” he thundered, “where is the grotto, slave?” Le Bossu turned on him a calm face. “There is none, monsieur,” he replied simply. De Baudri broke out with a terrible oath, drawing his sword. “You lying, humped toad!” he said, “how dared you do this?”