Babet was kneeling on the floor, with Truffe’s head smothered in her apron to hush the dog’s bark. Rosaline leaned against the window frame looking out, the moonlight outlining her slender figure.
“M. d’Aguesseau talks with one of them,� she said. “Ciel! how ghastly their faces look in this light—like chalk—and I see everywhere the flash of steel.�
“Can you make out who they are?� asked her grandmother, in a tremulous voice.
“Nay,� she replied, “but M. d’Aguesseau is friendly with them,—I can see that; he has shaken hands with one who seems to be a leader.�
“It is well,� said madame, in a tone of relief; “they must be of our people.�
The night was very still and the three women listened, but they did not distinguish the words that were spoken, though they heard the voices.
“Does M. d’Aguesseau still speak with them?� the old woman asked.
“He is coming back alone,� Rosaline replied in a low tone; and she did not leave her post when she heard him coming up the stairs.
He entered the room quietly, though he had his sword in his hand.
“Madame,� he said, “I came back to reassure you. These men are Camisards, led by Cavalier himself, and they are on their way to cut off a train of ammunition that is leaving Nîmes for St. Hippolyte. There will be a fight, but not very near here, I trust, and I believe you will be in safety. For myself, madame, I go with them.�