Babette lay like a log, stirring neither hand nor foot. In that awful moment, when her life or death was trembling in the balance, her mother love, that divine instinct implanted in every woman's breast, came to her and saved her. She knew that if she moved her baby's life was gone--her own she hardly cared about just then. But those little limbs that were nestling so soft and warm against her own, and that little flaxen head that was cuddled against her arm, for their sake she was brave. [Illustration: "SHE LAY MOTIONLESS"] So she lay motionless and listened, fearing that the men would hear even the quick, heavy throbs of her heart. But they did not. They searched quickly and systematically amongst all her clothing. They felt under her pillow again, but never thought of looking at the shawls of the baby who lay so peacefully by her side; and then at last they crept away and closed the door gently behind them. The room was in utter darkness. For ages, as it seemed, Babette lay there, afraid to stir, and listening vainly for some sound; then she sat up, all white and trembling. "My God!" she thought. "What awful thing has happened? Oh, give me strength and courage, for my baby's sake." As an inspiration, there came to her the thought of the little bottle that the good-natured landlady of "Les Trois Frères" had given her. She felt in the pocket of her dress and drew it out, taking a long, deep draught of the fiery spirit. She had been on the verge of fainting, though she knew it not, and the brandy put new life into her. She listened for a long time and then gently--very gently--she crept out of bed and drew aside the little curtain from the window. Perhaps a wild idea of escaping into the cold, dark night outside, aided by a sheet or blanket, flashed through her brain. If so, she soon realized that it would not be practicable. The window was not high, but it was small, and divided by thick, old-fashioned bars of iron. To get out was impossible. [Illustration: "SHE STOOD CONSIDERING."] As she stood considering, a thin, flickering moonbeam crept in and partially lighted up the room. It fell on to the door that led into the pedlar's chamber, and showed her something dark and slimy that was flowing slowly--slowly from under it into her room. She did not cry out or fall senseless. She bent down and put her hand into it, and saw that it was blood--her poor old friend's life-blood--for she knew now beyond all doubt that he had been murdered for the sake of his supposed wealth. She knew she was helpless till morning. To get out of the house was impossible, for to do so she must pass down the stairs and through the room below, where probably they were either sleeping or watching. If she had courage and could only let them think she knew and suspected nothing, she might still escape. Surely they would not dare to murder her also, for they knew her husband would be expecting her next day, and would be looking for her if she did not come.