Carola was praying. She held between her bare ringless hands a silver and ivory rosary. Her head was bowed reverently, so that her face was hidden by the shade of her hat. The strengthening sun gleamed on the red and gold and brown of the riding-habit that revealed her slight, womanly figure. Luc stood watching her. “Do you find consolation in that, Madame?” he asked gently. She looked up; then, seeing he was holding the horses, rose, slipping the rosary back into the bosom of her gown. “If not there, where else?” she asked, very sadly. “God is the only kind person I know.” She came towards her horse, and he helped her to mount. When she was in the saddle he gave her his cloak, and she took it now, without a word, and shivered into it. The dawn seemed colder than the night. “Do you remember the story of Madame de Montespan and the pigs?” she asked, leaning a little towards Luc. He stared at her. “She was very beautiful and very great,” continued Carola, “and when King Louis loved her there were no flowers in France considered worthy to lie on her breast. Then when she fell into disgrace she left the Court and died--still beautiful. And they took her heart to bury it at a certain convent; and the peasant who carried it became weary of the journey, and cast the heart into a ditch, and turned back--and _no one cared_. And some pigs nosing in the ditch ate the heart of the beautiful Marquise, and lay down that night in their sty with the proudest blood in France staining their jaws--and _no one cared_ except God!” Her eyes flashed. “I think He remembered it against King Louis.” “Why do you tell me this?” asked Luc, with a shudder. “Because I have been thrown to the ditch and the swine,” she answered; “and out of the dirt I ask God to remember that I have paid for some of my sins--here on earth.” He did not understand her, but her speech held him. With his hand on his bridle, he looked up at her, his haggard, resolute, and beautiful face clear in the light of the rising sun. “M. de Richelieu----” he began. “Let M. de Richelieu be!” answered Carola. “It is _you_ who have punished me most.” “I?” he questioned. “You--to-night--when I was lonely as the damned--and facing death and hell--and you would not kiss me.” Luc looked at her steadily. “You have cast my heart alive to the swine,” she said, in a trembling voice, “and God will remember it against you.” He caught her meaning through a confusion of pain. He realized his own self-absorption; he saw, suddenly and very vividly, her point of view. “You think I hold you in contempt?” he said hoarsely. “Why not?” she answered. “Why not?” Luc shook his head. “I am not fine, and I am not true,” said Carola. “There is no paint on my face now, and you must see I am a very common creature, Monsieur le Marquis.” Luc’s hand was so slack on the bridle that his horse began cropping the thin blades of grass that sprouted between the dead leaves. “Give me the child,” said the Countess.