Luc touched up his horse, crossed the field, and in a moment was among them. One of the guard had dragged the prisoner to her feet; she was being assailed by such horrid terms of abuse that he thought she must be some shameless thief or murderess. He spoke to the serjeant with quiet disgust, and his fine appearance, lofty manner, and long habit of command served to win the man’s respectful answer: he could not, he declared, keep the people off. As he spoke he threatened with his sword the nearest of the crowd, which had already scattered at the sight of the gentleman. “The law,” said Luc, “is no matter for me to interfere with,” for he saw the fellow pulling a warrant from his pocket; “but I will use my whip on these should they further molest yonder wretch.” He glanced at the prisoner, who stood for the moment isolated with her head bent. Her feet and the edge of her dress were covered with mud; her shoulders were bruised and her legs scratched and bleeding; her face, which was handsome, but of low type, was flooded with sudden colour and her wide lips twitched uncontrollably. The Marquis sickened to see her; he was turning back when she looked up straight into his face. Her eyes were large, far apart, and bloodshot, the lashes white with dust. As she gazed at Luc her disfigured, almost stupid-looking countenance was changed by a smile which was like a lady’s thanks for courtesy. Then she bent her head again and began to walk on painfully. The soldiers closed round her, the serjeant fell in with a salute to the Marquis, and the crowd followed, but at some distance and in silence. Luc watched them till they were over the hill and out of sight; he frowned in absorption and hardly troubled to notice two horsemen who had joined him and reined their horses near his. When he turned, indifferently, to look at them, he saw that they were the same remarkable couple that he had noticed at the inn. The Italian saluted him instantly. “Monsieur,” he said with some eagerness, “where has the woman gone?” “Over the hill,” answered Luc shortly. The Italian rubbed his hands together softly. “Well, well,” he said under his breath. “What has the creature done?” asked the Marquis of the priest. “And where have they brought her from?” The priest named a village some leagues off, and the Italian remarked that they had seen the procession earlier in the day, and that the probable object of bringing her this distance was to terrorize the countryside. “What is her crime?” demanded the Marquis haughtily. He disliked priests and foreigners in general and felt no reason to make an exception for these two. The priest fixed on him eyes that were metallic and twinkling in their hardness; he made the sign of the cross and said, in a cultured, toneless voice-- “The cursèd woman was a heretic.” The Italian seemed amused. “M. de Richelieu is working hard to purify Languedoc,” he remarked. “What was her punishment?” asked Luc.