He made the journey on foot. The sky was slightly veiled by fleecy, white clouds that tempered the heat of the sun. The road between Arles and Nimes is charming, and Coursegol walked blithely along, inhaling with delight the fresh morning breeze that came to him laden with the vivifying fragrance of the olive and cypress. As he approached Beaucaire, a pretty village on the bank of the Rhone, he noticed that an unusual animation pervaded the place. Groups of peasants stood here and there, engaged in excited conversation; every face wore an expression of anxiety. He thought at first that these people must be going or returning from some funeral; but he soon noticed that many were armed, some with guns, some with scythes. On reaching the centre of the town, he found the market-place full of soldiers; officers were giving excited orders. It looked as if the town were arming to defend itself. "What does all this mean?" inquired Coursegol, addressing a little group of townspeople. "Why, do you not know what has happened?" one man replied, in evident astonishment. "I have heard nothing. I have just arrived from Arles." "Nimes has been pillaged. The peasantry from the Cevennes have descended upon the city and massacred three hundred people--laborers, bourgeois, priests and nuns. They are now masters of the place, and it is feared that a detachment of them is coming in this direction. We are making ready to receive them." "What! Have they advanced beyond Nimes?" inquired Coursegol, appalled by this news. "Some of them advanced last night as far as the Pont du Gard. There they sacked and burned the Chateau de Chamondrin!" A ghastly pallor overspread Coursegol's features; he uttered a cry of horror. "What is the matter?" asked the man who had just apprised him of this terrible calamity. "My masters!--where are my masters?" cried poor Coursegol. Then, without waiting for the response which no one could give, he darted off like a madman in the direction of the Pont du Gard.