The Abbé Rosemonde, having finished his orisons, bethought himself of Marigny and little Aurore up at the château, ignorant, mayhap, as yet of the storm that was about to break with raging fury over their heads. At one moment he had thought of speaking to those poor misguided children who were being led away by disaster into acts of violence, the terrible consequences of which God alone could foresee. He had thought of admonishing André vallon, who bitter resentment was causing him to whip up the tempers of his sympathizers.

The worthy Curé shook his head dolefully: that poor lad! led astray on the very threshold of manhood by his obstinacy and willfulness: full of generous impulses, and such a good son! He would have made a kind and faithful husband if only the times had been different. And now that this awful grief had descended upon him his obstinacy would harden his heart still more against the comfort which religion along could give. A pity! a sad, sad, pity that this catastrophe had happened. It was the will of God, of course, and he, poor, humble priest, bowed meekly before it, but, oh! how he wished that it had not happened. He couldn't imagine who had conceived such an inhuman project, for never for a moment would he contemplate the idea that Monseigneur would act so cruelly.

"Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! Sainte Vierge Marie!" he murmured fervently, "turn the hearts of those poor, ignorant people of France to a better knowledge of religion and virtue."

Thus the old man prayed while he tramped up the familiar woodland path toward the château. He had been able to reach the slope without being seen by the crowd, who were still standing outside the ruined cottage, talking and murmuring. At one moment the Abbé thought that he heard the voice of Hector Talon. Well, of course, as a priest and a Christian he wished no harm to come to anyone, but if it pleased God to punish Talon, Talon who had the ear of Monseigneur and was such an evil consellor, he, as a man, would not complain.

Now, as he tramped upward, the good Curé could hear echoing from the valley below the distant clamour of the angry crowd: André's sonorous voice and the hoarse shouts that rang with the promise of mischief.

The atmosphere was terribly oppressive; there seemed to be no air here under the trees; not a leaf stirred, and an evil smell seemed to rise from the dust in the road. The Abbé hurried on. he knew that he could do nothing "up there," but he could warn Monseigneur of what was brewing against him. It might be wise to seek safety in flight while there was time.

There was the width of the terrace and the gardens, with the distant postern gate which gave on a lonely part of the wood, where it might be possible to await quietly a better turn of events.

Indeed, the Abbé had to hurry. Looking down from a point of vantage, into the road below, he could see that the crowd had begun to move. To the priest it seemed as if their number had swelled. But his eyes were short-sighted, and many months ago he had broken his spectacles; he had never had any money since with which to buy new ones, so he couldn't see very well. he hoped that the crowd was not great and that Talon was with them. Surely Talon would act as a restraining power over the others.

Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! how foolish it all was! If only Mademoiselle Aurore and Jeannette were out of the way, for arguments with noisy crowds were not fit for women's ears.

Fortunately he was well ahead of the misguided lambs. He almost ran up the perron, pushed open the great gate, and hurried across hall and corridor and up the marble staircase to the distant small withdrawing room, where Monseigneur usually spent the best part of the day.

Aurore was there with her father. She was busy sewing, and Monseigneur was reading a paper which seemed highly to incense him, for just as the Curé entered the room he crushed it in his hand and threw it on the floor with an oath. The priest sank, puffing and panting, into a chair:

"Those poor people! those poor miserable fools!" he began, and mopped his streaming forehead.

Monseigneur looked at him and laughed.

"You need not tell me," he said curtly. "I know."

Aurore looked up from her sewing; she looked first at her father, then at the Abbé; then she put down her work. Something terrible had happened. The strange glitter in her father's eyes, the anxiety and distress in the Curé's face, but, above all, her intuition and a sense of foreboding told her that something terrible had happened.

"What is it?" she demanded.

"Those poor people," the priest murmured, "they are so foolish - so ignorant-"

"Ruffians and devils!" Monseigneur declared, and struck the table with his fist, "they have learned at last that I, for one, am not to be defied."

Aurore took hold of his hand; the one with which he had struck the table.

"What has happened?" she demanded again.

There was a moment's silence. Only a few seconds. But during those seconds she heard. The window was open, and she heard the clamour - the sound of feet tramping up the slope and of a dull murmur that mingled with the rumbling of the distant thunder. She knew what it meant. Without doubt an in a moment, she knew what it meant. Newspapers, pamphlets, rumours had found their way to this lonely corner of France. Aurore de Marigny knew that all over the country demagogues - men like that André Vallon - spent their time in inciting all the ruffians they could get hold of to do acts of violence against persons of property. She knew that. And she knew what the outcome of such provocations had often been. Outrage. Death. Sometimes worse than death.

She questioned her father. She had the right to know. They would all hold their lives in their hands in a few minutes when the crowd reached the château. She had the right to know, she declared. Something had roused the village folk to frenzy: what was it?

Monseigneur shrugged and said nothing. The glitter in his eyes was like that of a madman. The old priest, overcome with emotion and the heat, could do nothing but mop his forehead. And the clamour from the valley grew louder and louder, the dull murmur of voices and the tramp of naked feet in the dust of the road.

And suddenly Pierre came bursting into the room, with Jeannette weeping and trailing behind him. They knew everything. Pierre had heard it all - Heaven knew how - but he had heard so he ran up - like the old Curé had done - to warn Monseigneur and Mademoiselle. He was breathless and inarticulate, but Monseigneur did not interrupt him while he blurted out the whole terrible tale: the six ruffians, the eviction of the women and children, the firing of the cottages, the death of Marianne Vallon.

Charles de Marigny appeared indifferent to the whole thing and entirely disdainful. He did not even wince when Pierre spoke of the death of Marianne. The priest moaned and ejaculated: "Mon Dieu!" and looked to Heaven for guidance, while Aurore listened wide-eyed, horrified. At first she was incredulous and turned to her father with an appealing and mute: "Is it true?" But his glance was obstinately averted. He stared out of the window - listening - listening for the coming of that rabble which he despised so utterly, even though their approach now probably meant death to him and to Aurore.

A few minutes later the crowd had invaded the courtyard. The shuffling of naked feet, mingling with the clatter of sabots and the tramping of shoes, sounded like the breaking of surf on a pebble beach. the voices were subdued, like the distant murmur of an angry sea. There were no shouts, only murmurs and occasionally the whimpering of a child.

Monseigneur rose.

"The gate-" he said curtly to Pierre.

"Barred and bolted, monseigneur. Oh! monseigneur didn't think that I would allow..."

Charles de Marigny did not listen. He had opened the drawer of the table against which he now proceeded to examine carefully. Aurore's large troubled eyes watched him as he drew his tall figure to its full height and then turned to the door. With a sudden little cry she ran and stood between him and that door. "You are not going to meet them, Father!" she exclaimed impulsively, and put out her arms to stop him, but he pushed her roughly aside.

"You don't imagine," he retorted coldly, "that I would allow that rabble to come in here?"

"If you go," she protested, "I come with you."

He took hold of her wrist with such violence that she nearly cried out with pain. Who was she, he demanded, to stand in his way? How dare she pit her feeble woman's will against his determination to deal with those ruffians as they deserved?

"I order you to stay here," he commanded; and not heeding the servants' look of horror or the Curé mild protest he dragged her roughly from the door.

"Are you trying to defy me," he thundered, "like that riffraff over there?"

And the look which he cast on her - on her, the child of his heart, the apple of his eye - was so laden with fury that she shrank from him as if he had struck her in the face.

Then he opened the door. It gave on one of the great reception rooms, used as a ballroom in the olden days. A long vista of parquet flooring, of mirrors and girandoles, of tapestries and consoles, stretched out to the other great doors opposite. Aurore turned a last appealing look to the Curé.

"You must obey your father, my child," he said. "God will protect him, and you can do nothing."

He struggled to his feet and beckoned to Pierre. Charles de Marigny had already gone through the door, and now the Abbé Rosemonde and Pierre went out in his wake.