“This room is hot,” she exclaimed, suddenly, and rose from her seat without troubling to finish the melody. “And that window will not open, mademoiselle; for I have tried it,” added Barebone, watching her impatient movements. “Then I am going into the garden,” she said, with a sharp sigh and a wilful toss of the head. It was not his fault that the setting sun, against which, as many have discovered, men shut their doors, should happen to be burning hot or that the window would not open. But Juliette seemed to blame him for it or for something else, perhaps. One never knows. Barebone did not follow her at once, but stood by the window talking to the Marquis, who was in a reminiscent humour. The old man interrupted his own narrative, however. “There,” he cried, “is Juliette on that wall overhanging the river. It is where the English effected a breach long ago, my friend--you need not smile, for you are no Englishman--and the chateau has only been taken twice through all the centuries of fighting. There! She ventures still farther. I have told her a hundred times that the wall is unsafe.” “Shall I go and warn her the hundred-and-first time?” asked Loo, willing enough. “Yes, my friend, do. And speak to her severely. She is only a child, remember.” “Yes--I will remember that.” Juliette did not seem to hear his approach across the turf where the goats fed now, but stood with her back toward him, a few feet below him, actually in that breach effected long ago by those pestilential English. They must have prized out the great stones with crowbars and torn them down with their bare hands. Juliette was looking over the vineyards toward the river, which gleamed across the horizon. She was humming to herself the last lines of the song: D'un bout du monde A l'autre bout, Le Hasard seul fait tout. She turned with a pretty swing of her skirts to gather them in her hand. “You must go no farther, mademoiselle,” said Loo. She stopped, half bending to take her skirt, but did not look back. Then she took two steps downward from stone to stone. The blocks were half embedded in the turf and looked ready to fall under the smallest additional weight. “It is not I who say so, but your father who sent me,” explained the admonisher from above. “Since it is all chance--” she said, looking downward. She turned suddenly and looked up at him with that impatience which gives way in later life to a philosophy infinitely to be dreaded when it comes; for its real name is Indifference. Her movements were spasmodic and quick as if something angered her, she knew not what; as if she wanted something, she knew not what. “I suppose,” she said, “that it was chance that saved our lives that night two months ago, out there.”