“The ignorant and the unlettered,” observed Colville, with the air of making a concession, “are always at a disadvantage--even in crime.” “That the Dauphin was, in the mean time, concealed in the garret of the Tower appears to be certain. That he was finally conveyed out of the prison in a clothes-basket is as certain, Monsieur, as it is certain that the sun will rise to-morrow. And I believe that the Queen knew, when she went to the guillotine, that her son was no longer in the Temple. I believe that Heaven sent her that one scrap of comfort, tempered as it was by the knowledge that her daughter remained a prisoner in their hands. But it was to her son that her affections were given. For the Duchess never had the gift of winning love. As she is now--a cold, hard, composed woman--so she was in her prison in the Temple at the age of fifteen. You may take it from one who has known her all his life. And from that moment to this--” The Marquis paused, and made a gesture with his hands, descriptive of space and the unknown. “From that moment to this--nothing. Nothing of the Dauphin.” He turned in his seat and looked questioningly up toward the crumbling church, with its square tower, stricken, years ago, by lightning; with its grass-grown graveyard marked by stones all grey and hoary with immense age and the passage of cold and stormy winters. “Who knows,” he added, “what may have become of him? Who can say where he lies? For a life begun as his began was not likely to be a long one. Though troubles do not kill. Witness myself, who am five years his senior.” Colville looked at him in obedience to an inviting gesture of the hand; looked as at something he did not understand, something beyond his understanding, perhaps. For the troubles had not been Monsieur de Gemosac's own troubles, but those of his country. “And the Duchess?” said the Englishman at length, after a pause, “at Frohsdorf--what does she say--or think?”