Test Bank for Introduction to Java Programming

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9780133761313
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chapter2.txt
Chapter 2 Elementary Programming

Section 2.3 Reading Input from the Console

1. Suppose a Scanner object is created as

follows: Scanner input = new Scanner(System.in);

What method do you use to read an int value?

a. input.nextInt();
b. input.nextInteger();
c. input.int();
d. input.integer();
Key:a

#
2. The following code fragment reads in two numbers:

Scanner input = new Scanner(System.in);

int i = input.nextInt();
double d = input.nextDouble();

What are the correct ways to enter these two numbers?

a. Enter an integer, a space, a double value, and then the Enter key.
b. Enter an integer, two spaces, a double value, and then the Enter key.
c. Enter an integer, an Enter key, a double value, and then the Enter key.
d. Enter a numeric value with a decimal point, a space, an integer, and then
the Enter key.
Key:abc

#
6. is the code with natural language mixed with Java
code. a. Java program
b. A Java statement
c. Pseudocode
d. A flowchart
diagram key:c

#
3. If you enter 1 2 3, when you run this program, what will be the

output? import java.util.Scanner;

public class Test1 {

public static void main(String[] args) {
Scanner input = new Scanner(System.in);
System.out.print("Enter three numbers: ");
Page 1
 chapter2.txt
double number1 = input.nextDouble();
double number2 = input.nextDouble();
double number3 = input.nextDouble();

// Compute average
double average = (number1 + number2 + number3) / 3;

// Display result
System.out.println(average);
}
}

a. 1.0
b. 2.0
c. 3.0
d. 4.0
Key:b

#
4. What is the exact output of the following code?

double area = 3.5;

System.out.print("area");
System.out.print(area);

a. 3.53.5
b. 3.5 3.5
c. area3.5
d. area 3.5
Key:c

#
Section 2.4 Identifiers
4. Every letter in a Java keyword is in lowercase?
a. true
b. false
Key:a

#
5. Which of the following is a valid identifier?
a. $343
b. class
c. 9X
d. 8+9
e. radius
Key:ae

#
Page 2
 chapter2.txt
Section 2.5 Variables
6. Which of the following are correct names for variables according to
Java naming conventions?
a. radius
b. Radius
c. RADIUS
d. findArea
e. FindArea
Key:ad

#
7. Which of the following are correct ways to declare variables?
a. int length; int width;
b. int length, width;
c. int length; width;
d. int length, int width;
Key:ab

#
Section 2.6 Assignment Statements and Assignment Expressions
8. is the Java assignment operator.
a. ==
b. :=
c. =
d. =:
Key:c

#
9. To assign a value 1 to variable x, you write
a. 1 = x;
b. x = 1;
c. x := 1;
d. 1 := x;
e. x == 1;
Key:b

#
10. Which of the following assignment statements is incorrect?
a. i = j = k = 1;
b. i = 1; j = 1; k = 1;
c. i = 1 = j = 1 = k = 1;
d. i == j == k == 1;
Key:cd

#
Section 2.7 Named Constants
11. To declare a constant MAX_LENGTH inside a method with value 99.98, you write
a. final MAX_LENGTH = 99.98;
Page 3
 chapter2.txt
b. final float MAX_LENGTH = 99.98;
c. double MAX_LENGTH = 99.98;
d. final double MAX_LENGTH = 99.98;
Key:d

#
12. Which of the following is a constant, according to Java naming conventions?
a. MAX_VALUE
b. Test
c. read
d. ReadInt
e. COUNT
Key:ae

#
13. To improve readability and maintainability, you should declare
instead of using literal values such as 3.14159.
a. variables
b. methods
c. constants
d. classes
Key:c

#
Section 2.8 Naming Conventions
60. According to Java naming convention, which of the following names can
be variables?
a. FindArea
b. findArea
c. totalLength
d. TOTAL_LENGTH
e. class
Key:bc

#
Section 2.9 Numeric Data Types and Operations
14. Which of these data types requires the most amount of memory?
a. long
b. int
c. short
d. byte
Key:a

#
34. If a number is too large to be stored in a variable of the float type, it
.
a. causes overflow
b. causes underflow
Page 4
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time, a deep shadow on his worn face, and his callous hands clasped and
raised in an attitude of supplication.
At that moment the shadows were falling softly about the white walls of
St. Cyr, and Rosaline stood looking out of the window of her own room,
her face to the east, and singing softly, in all the joy of youth and
innocence.
Ah, the contrast in the lives that touch each other so strangely in this
world of ours!
 CHAPTER X
A DANGEROUS SUIT
M S . C was leaning back in her chair, her white hands
folded in her lap, her eyes fixed in an absent gaze on the space outside
the sitting-room window. Opposite to her, leaning his elbow on the
mantelpiece was the elegant figure of M. de Baudri. He was watching the
old face before him, with indifferent eyes, a smile on his lips. She was ill
at ease; he was well satisfied. He was the first to break the pause.
“I think madame will acknowledge that I am willing to do all that is
liberal and kind,” he said suavely.
“I do acknowledge it, monsieur,” she replied, in troubled tones, “but the
child—you know, M. de Baudri, that I have never treated Rosaline as
other girls are treated. She is accustomed to deciding for herself, young
as she is, and—she does not listen favorably to your suit.”
He waved his hand airily. “The whim of a child, madame, the natural
coyness of a young maiden. I honor mademoiselle, for her hesitations,
but between us there need be no such conventionalities. I desire to marry
your granddaughter, and I flatter myself that you do not object,
madame.”
He fixed his eyes on her haughtily as he spoke; there was a covert threat
in his tone, despite his affable manner. The old woman sighed.
“’Tis hard for me to explain,” she said plaintively; “I can have no
objections to you personally, M. de Baudri, but I am averse to doing
anything to force Rosaline’s inclinations.”
He smiled scornfully. “Madame does not expect me to believe in so
flimsy an excuse, surely?” he remarked with a frown. “I never heard that
the whims of a mere girl controlled arrangements of this kind. My
marriage with your granddaughter would benefit you in many ways. The
de Baudris confer an honor when they marry.”
A red spot flamed in madame’s white cheeks; her situation had made a
coward of her, but there was a limit even to her endurance.
“The St. Cyrs thank monsieur,” she said ironically, “but they also are of
noble blood. No man could confer an honor on the daughter of the house;
she will confer it, when she makes her choice. We are poor, M. de
Baudri, but we ask favors of no one.”
He saw his error, and bowed low before the old dame, his hand on his
heart.
“Mademoiselle is an angel,” he said; “if I did not recognize that, I would
not, a second time, sue for her hand. I also am proud, madame.”
The old woman returned his bow, but was silent. She was hurt, angry,
alarmed. She began to fear those handsome, bold eyes, and the smooth
voice; after all, he was like a panther, ready to spring, and her beautiful
darling, the idol of her old age was the object of his desire. But for that
fearful danger, their concealed religion, she could have faced him well
enough, but he had a mighty weapon in his hand, and she almost feared
that he knew it. For herself, death would be no great hardship, but for
Rosaline—she shuddered, pressing her handkerchief to her lips, and
staring out of the window. Meanwhile M. de Baudri watched her
narrowly; he knew far less than she thought, but he was fiercely in love
with Rosaline, and such love as his was as dangerous as hate. The girl’s
indifference enraged him; he would have her, and then—Mother of
Heaven! he would teach her to scorn him, indeed! He would break her
will and humble her into his slave. Madame de St. Cyr felt all this,
vaguely, it is true, but still strongly enough to make her recoil from him.
What could she do? she thought, a helpless old woman with all the world
against her! Père Ambroise loved the child, it was true, but might not
Père Ambroise favor an orthodox lover? M. de Baudri’s smooth voice
broke in on her troubled thoughts, and demanded her attention again.
“You have advanced no reasonable objections to my suit, madame,” he
said affably; “I shall therefore regard it as accepted by you, and only in
abeyance on account of mademoiselle’s maidenly scruples.”
“But I have not accepted it,” she protested, greatly troubled; “I will not
accept any offer for the child that—that does not give her happiness.
Why should I desire to part with the jewel of my old age? You are
naturally forgetful of my situation, monsieur; Rosaline’s marriage would
leave me desolate.”
“Nay, madame,” he replied, not ungracefully, “you would but gain a son.
If this is your only scruple—is it not a selfish one?”
Poor Madame de St. Cyr was fairly cornered. He saw it and laughed in
his sleeve.
“You are very kind, M. de Baudri,” she faltered, “but after all it rests
where it did. Rosaline must decide.”
He smiled. “Then, madame, you virtually acquiesce,” he said blandly;
“for I trust that I can win so young and amiable a girl as mademoiselle—
if you give me a fair opportunity.”
She shook her head, smiling faintly. “You have had opportunity, M. de
Baudri,” she replied; “’tis not in my mind to influence her in any way.
She must choose for herself.”
He was all smooth amiability now; he took his plumed hat from the table
and stood a moment longer on the hearth-rug, the picture of ease and
assurance,—his curled periwig, his lace cravat, his military coat, all of
the latest mode.
“I will undertake to win mademoiselle’s consent,” he said. “Permit me,
however, to remark that your ideas on the matter are—to say the least—
unconventional. But no matter, ’twill be a little romance. There is one
thing, though, I would say, madame, and that is, I notice with surprise
that you keep that fellow as steward still. I spoke to you before.”
A faint flush rose on the old dame’s pale face and her eyes kindled. She
was not yet accustomed to dictation.
“The man is useful to me,” she said shortly. “Monsieur forgets that he is
not yet one of my family.”
De Baudri bit his lip, an ugly look in his blue eyes.
“I beg madame’s pardon,” he said, “but she probably remembers the
cause of my protest; a grave one,—I believe the rogue may be a
concealed Camisard.”
Madame de St. Cyr’s hands trembled, and she controlled herself with an
effort.
“I think you are mistaken, M. de Baudri,” she protested; “he was well
recommended, and I have seen nothing to indicate—that he was other
than he claimed to be.”
“You can see that he is no steward by profession, though, madame,”
retorted the officer, coolly, “and his presence may be dangerous at St.
Cyr.”
“He has done his duty so far, monsieur,” she mustered courage to reply,
“and I have no pretext for his discharge.”
De Baudri shrugged his shoulders.
“Madame should not need a second warning,” he remarked, with much
suavity; “perhaps ’twould be well for me to investigate his antecedents
and thus relieve madame of farther embarrassments.”
“I thank you, monsieur,” she said, with an effort to be calm, “I can see to
the matter myself. I will refer it to Père Ambroise. If any one is anxious
about our spiritual welfare, he should be.”
“Doubtless, madame,” M. de Baudri replied pleasantly, “but Père
Ambroise is notoriously easy-tempered. I should advise you to be
careful. You cannot afford to harbor a heretic here; a word to M. de
Bâville—” He broke off, shrugging his shoulders.
Madame stirred uneasily in her chair. Every word that he had uttered had
been a covert threat, and she knew well enough to what end it all tended.
He loved Rosaline and he meant to have her. “Mon Dieu!” thought the
old woman, “he would have the child even against her will! Can he be
wicked enough to try to intimidate her,—to force her into a marriage?”
She awoke from these reflections to find him making his adieux.
“I have warned you, madame,” he said benignly. “Convey my devotion
to mademoiselle—my regret that she is absent from home at this hour. I
will soon present myself again; meanwhile, madame, rest assured of my
faithful friendship.”
He bowed profoundly, his hand again on his heart, and retired, leaving
the poor old woman collapsed in her chair; nor did she breathe freely
until she heard his horse’s hoofs on the road to Nîmes.
Meanwhile a very different scene had been enacted in the kitchen. Babet
was making a ragoût over the fire; the steward leaned against the
window, posted there to watch for the visitor’s departure; the
hunchbacked cobbler was by the door, and in the centre of the room
stood mademoiselle herself, although she was supposed to be out,—
mademoiselle in flesh and blood, and a picture to look at in her malicious
triumph over her escape. She wore a white print frock, the neck open
enough to show her full, fair throat, and the half-sleeves revealing her
round, white arms. Her golden hair had half escaped from its braids and
rippled about her rosy, dimpled face, and her blue eyes danced with
merriment. It was her birthday, and M. de Baudri had brought a suitable
gift, an enamelled casket, but she held in her hands two little white satin
shoes with pink rosettes, and the shoemaker’s drawn face was lighted
with a reflection of her pleasure.
“You are surely a magician, Charlot,” she said, admiring them for the
twentieth time. “I know these are enchanted slippers, and in them I shall
walk into the palace of my dreams, where there is no trouble, and Babet
and I do not have to conjure a dinner!”
“Ah, mademoiselle, if I could but make such shoes!” exclaimed le
Bossu, with a smile; “the poor cobbler of St. Antoine would be made a
marquis.”
“’Tis better to give happiness than to be rich, Charlot,” she replied, “and
you have given me so much pleasure to-day that I can even endure M. de
Baudri’s visit in the parlor!” and she laughed gayly.
“If he hears you laugh, mademoiselle, he will stay to dinner,” remarked
Babet grimly, looking over her shoulder as she stirred the stew.
“You have found a way to make me as still as a mouse, Babet,” Rosaline
said. “Has he not gone yet, M. d’Aguesseau?”
François shook his head with a smile.
“As a suitor he has the patience of Jacob, mademoiselle,” he replied.
Rosaline made a little grimace and blushed, turning away from him with
a gesture of impatience. The little hunchback, watching the two, read her
mood more truly than she read it herself, and his new-born pleasure died
out of his face.
“I shall wear these shoes to-night, Charlot,” she hastened to say, her back
turned on the supposed steward. “They are fit for a ball, but I never go to
balls, so I will wear them on my birthday as the greatest honor I can pay
them.”
“Mademoiselle makes me happy by wearing them at all,” Charlot replied
simply.
D’Aguesseau was now looking intently out of the window.
“M. de Baudri is mounting at the gate,” he announced. “Mademoiselle,
you are no longer in prison.”
She would not look at him, but she beamed on the little cobbler.
“I will run and show my present to grand’mère,” she said.
Charlot followed her to the door.
“Mademoiselle, a word with you,” he said in a low voice.
She turned in surprise and then beckoned to him to follow her into the
entry.
“What is it?” she asked, quickly, a little alarmed.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, quietly, “do not be needlessly afraid, but I
would warn you against an old woman—a fishwife—”
“Ciel!” exclaimed Rosaline; “you mean that terrible creature who came
here?”
“Yes,” he replied, “and she was angry because of her torn petticoat, I
suppose. She is Mère Tigrane, a dangerous woman, a spying, mischief-
making demon of the market. And—well, mademoiselle, she saw M.
d’Aguesseau when I first saw him, she tracked him to my house, she
tracked him here. I fear it may mean mischief; if he goes away it will be
better for all.”
Rosaline was very pale; all the joy died out of her face; she pressed her
hand involuntarily to her heart.
“I thank you, Charlot,” she said quietly. “If—if you hear anything—you
will tell me?”
“Assuredly, mademoiselle,” replied the cobbler earnestly, “and—” he
hesitated, and then went on firmly, “will you believe, mademoiselle, that
in all cases—at all times—I am your humble but faithful servant?”
She looked at him kindly; his devotion touched her.
“Indeed, I have always believed it, Charlot,” she said heartily, and held
out her hand.
The shoemaker took it with wonder. Her little soft hand in his! He had
never dreamed of it; he had touched her feet, but her hand! Poor Charlot,
he turned red to his temples and did not know what she said. And
Rosaline left him and went on to her grandmother without a thought of
her act of condescension. She was naturally gracious, and she did not
despise the poor as did other young women of her rank. But the poor
little shoemaker went back to Nîmes feeling that he had been translated;
had he not touched the white hand of an angel of mercy?
 CHAPTER XI
FRANÇOIS MAKES A PLEDGE
I was half an hour before moonrise and the night was supremely still.
The warm air of midsummer stirred not even a leaf on the trees. There
was no sound but the footsteps of three persons walking through a
mulberry grove at a short distance from the spot where the highroad from
Nîmes turned off to St. Hippolyte. Mademoiselle and Babet, escorted by
M. d’Aguesseau, were making their way slowly back to St. Cyr. They
had been—at the peril of their lives—to one of the night meetings of the
Church of the Desert and were returning; cautiously avoiding
observation all the while. Babet led them, her erect form moving
deliberately forward; she never made a misstep, never hesitated, but held
to her course in grim silence. She did not approve of their guest’s
attentions to mademoiselle. D’Aguesseau had Rosaline’s hand and was
guiding her, helping her over rough places, feeling the way where neither
of them could see. They talked together at intervals, in low voices, and
Babet’s ears moved, though she would have sworn that she scorned to
listen; but she was guarding her ewe-lamb, and in spite of her
convictions that mademoiselle must marry a prince, she began to be
afraid of this resolute, quiet man.
They walked as rapidly as they could in the darkness, and leaving the
trees behind turned sharply to the right across an arid plain that presented
many rough and broken places, and where Rosaline required
d’Aguesseau’s helping hand and his cautious guidance. Then they
followed the dry bed of a stream, walking over stones and sand, always
avoiding the highroad, but making their way steadily toward St. Cyr.
“It seems a long distance,” Rosaline said at last with a sigh.
“Long and dangerous for you,” François answered gently; “I would that
we could have persuaded you to remain at home, mademoiselle.”
“Surely you would not have robbed me of such a consolation?” she said
reproachfully.
“Nay,” he replied, in a low voice, “you know that I would do anything to
serve you, but this was a terrible risk. MM. de Bâville and Montrevel are
both watchful; both suspect that these religious meetings are held in the
neighborhood, and at any time the troops may descend upon that old
quarry; and there would be no quarter.”
“Yet we must serve God, monsieur,” Rosaline said, “even as Daniel did
—in peril of the lion’s den; and as the prophet of Israel was delivered,
surely the remnant of this people will be also delivered. Truly, monsieur,
I would rather cast in my lot with these peasants, enfants de Dieu, than
live as I do. But my grandmother is too old and too feeble for the wild
life of the Cévenols, and so I go on—a Papist in Nîmes, a Protestant at
heart.”
“You would join these people, mademoiselle, yet you have argued
against me when I have proposed to go to the Cévennes.”
“You are under a pledge to go to England,” she returned promptly; “you
have suffered enough. The time will come quickly for all of us, I
suppose. I do not believe that this deception can go on. If the soldiers had
found us to-night, I wonder if any of us would have escaped!”
“Mon Dieu!” he murmured softly, “how terrible it would have been. The
sentinels told me that there were two hundred and fifty women and
children there, besides the men who came with Cavalier.”
“It would have been death,” she said dreamily; “we can die but once,
monsieur.”
“You would not have died,” he answered sternly, “while I had a life to
give for yours.”
She was silent, but he felt her hand quiver in his. He could not see her
face, nor could she see his, but each felt the other’s deep emotion. They
walked on, treading carefully; they were skirting the edge of a field of
rye on the border of the village of St. Césaire, but they had yet to cross a
rocky elevation before they could reach the château. To the left, the
lights of the hamlet twinkled like fallen stars, and they heard the dogs
baying in the distance.
Meanwhile the sky, which had been so dark, became softly luminous, a
whiteness spread over it, the stars paled. At the horizon, the mountains
were sharply outlined, black against the growing light, while the earth
lay in darkness. Rosaline and her companions began to ascend a steep
path, and as they reached the top of the slope the moon rose glorious and
a flood of white light poured a searching radiance over the scene. The
white rocks cast black shadows, and the sandy soil beneath their feet
seemed as white as chalk, while above them a solitary cedar stretched its
branches, dark and feathery, against a luminous background. Over there
were the spires and turrets of Nîmes, below them the cottage roofs of St.
Césaire, around them a wild and barren country, suddenly whitened by
the moon.
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Babet, harshly, “’tis a white night—white as a
winding-sheet! ’Tis ill luck, mademoiselle; let us hurry—a dog is baying
at the moon.”
Rosaline’s mood changed, and for the first time that night she laughed
naturally and sweetly.
“You foolish Babet!” she said, “it is a glorious night, and you have been
to prayers. Where is your courage?”
Babet shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve courage enough, mademoiselle,” she
said, “but I do not love to thrust my head into the lion’s mouth.”
With this remark she went on again, leaving the others to follow. To
Babet there were many things more important than a fine scene by
moonlight, and she did not approve of the slow progress made by her
mistress and her escort.
“A faithful servant,” remarked Rosaline, following her with her eyes.
“She was my nurse when I was a baby, and she treats me as a child.
Doubtless, monsieur, you think that we lead a strange life at St. Cyr. I
fancy it is very different from the lives of other women of our rank, but
what else can we do? We are poor, and we are glad of our humble friend
Babet; indeed, I think that she and the little cobbler, Charlot, are our
most devoted allies. After all, I imagine that grand’mère and I would be
very unhappy if we were surrounded with state, and had all our sweet
liberty restricted. Were you ever at Versailles, monsieur?”
“But once,” he said quietly. “I went to try to see the king. I wanted to
petition him for my innocent sister’s liberty—that I might take her
place.”
“Forgive me!” Rosaline exclaimed; “I did not think of the pain I should
give. Tell me,” she went on hurriedly, “have you ever seen Cavalier or
Roland? To-night, in the darkness, I wanted to see him; ’tis true that they
lighted the torches about him, but in that wild illumination I made out
nothing except that he appeared a boy. But he did not speak like one!”
“He looked very young,” François replied; “but there is a certain force
about him. I never saw him before, but I shall not soon forget him, or the
poor, crazed girl.”
“Did you think her demented?” asked Rosaline. “To me she seemed
inspired, and surely she preached a wonderful sermon; still, as you say,
she spoke wildly.”
“I thought her demented,” he rejoined quietly; “there are so many of
these young girls prophesying. It seems to me that it is more the result of
suffering, of the horrible spectacles they have witnessed, than a touch of
sacred inspiration.”
“It may be so,” she admitted, reluctantly, “but surely such times as these
might well produce prophets and soothsayers.”
They were in sight of the château now and saw the light burning in
Madame de St. Cyr’s room. She was too feeble to go out on such
perilous expeditions and had remained behind in fear and trembling,
praying for their safe return. When Babet opened the wicket-gate they
were greeted by Truffe’s warning bark, and she was at the door to greet
them with noisy joy. Rosaline and M. d’Aguesseau went to Madame de
St. Cyr to tell her of the congregation, and Babet retired to her own
domain to meditate in solitude on mademoiselle and their visitor.
Rosaline recounted their visit to the quarry where the Camisards met,
and old madame listened with eagerness, her pale face unusually
animated. She wanted to hear everything, Cavalier’s speech, the sermon
of the young girl,—one of the prophets of the Cévenols,—the prayer
offered by one of the ministers, the psalms they sang. But she shook her
head when she heard that Cavalier had sent word to M. Montrevel that
for every Protestant village that the maréchal destroyed, he, Cavalier,
would destroy two Papist villages.
“’Twill be useless,” she said quietly; “the king will pour his soldiers
upon us, and Languedoc will be laid waste; we cannot prevail against
such power. My husband always said so, and my son. They used to say
that if the Edict of Nantes should be revoked, the Protestants would soon
be destroyed. It will be so—I have felt it from the first.”
“Ah, grand’mère, you are not hopeful enough,” Rosaline said; “see what
these two men—Cavalier and Roland—have already accomplished. Let
us hope that England will help us.”
Madame shook her head. “The world is selfish,” she said quietly; then
she glanced at the clock. “Rosaline, call Babet,” she said; “’tis the hour
for our devotions.”
The housekeeper was summoned, while François looked carefully at the
windows and saw that all the shutters were fastened. Then the little
company joined in evening prayer, Madame de St. Cyr reading a chapter
from the Bible. They did not sing; not even in that secluded spot did they
dare to give voice to one of Marot’s psalms, for they did not know what
ear might be listening in the night. When it was over the grandmother
bade Rosaline good-night and sent her away with Babet, but she detained
d’Aguesseau. When they were alone she turned to him with a sad face.
“I fear that trouble is brewing, monsieur,” she said quietly; “the very
presence of Cavalier near Nîmes increases our perils, and there too are
the Florentines,—the White Camisards, as they call themselves,—
ruffians, in fact, banded together to hunt us down. I see nothing but
danger and death on every side. For myself, I no longer fear,” she added
with sorrowful dignity; “I know that I have but a little while to live, and I
would die right cheerfully for my religion, but Rosaline—mon Dieu!”
she clasped her hands and looked up.
“Madame, if I can protect her—” began François.
“That is what I would pray for, monsieur,” she said. “If I am taken, will
you aid Babet to get her out of France?”
“I would give my life for hers!” he answered gravely.
The old woman looked up at his resolute face, at the light in his eyes,
and bowed her own face in her hands.
“Madame de St. Cyr,” he said quietly, “I do solemnly pledge myself to
defend her—to take her away to a place of safety—to fight for her as
long as I live myself.”
She looked up through her tears.
“I thank the bon Dieu!” she said. “To-day men are like wolves toward
our lambs. You see how gentle, how innocent the child is.”
She held out her thin, white hand and he took it, and pressed it to his lips.
“Forgive me,” he said gently, “I love her.”
The old face quivered and flushed a little, but she was touched.
“I know not how the child may feel,” she said simply, “but I knew your
family, and—I am content that it should be so. Heaven may have sent
you to be her defender, for I do greatly fear that the hour of danger draws
nigh.”
 CHAPTER XII
THE FINGER OF FATE
T months of the terrible summer of 1703 waned, and autumn came.
Fire and sword had laid waste in Languedoc. It had been a reign of terror.
The chieftains of the Camisards sweeping down from the Cévennes
carried the war almost to the sea; priests were slain, Catholic villages
burned. On the other side, the king’s soldiers poured into the devoted
country, and the Huguenots were hunted far and wide. The galleys at
Marseilles were crowded, the jails were packed, the gallows in constant
use; the women and children were sent to convents and prisons, and the
desolate country threatened famine, with no man to till the soil, and no
woman to bind the sheaves. Still it went on, that cruel war for religion’s
sake, and the blood of the innocent was poured out as a libation.
Nîmes was thronged with soldiers, the markets were crowded, the busy
life choked the marts, but the open country was stricken; even the valley
of the Vaunage—“the little Canaan” of Languedoc—had suffered. In the
court of the Rue St. Antoine, the little cobbler mended the shoes of the
soldiers, and out at St. Cyr only one or two late roses were blooming,
and the bees had stored their honey for winter. The every-day life went
on; the steward was still there, chained by invisible links now; he
scarcely thought of leaving France, and he knew that he might be
needed, for Madame de St. Cyr was failing fast. She had had an attack of
heart disease, and sat in her chair all day, without strength to take her
accustomed part in affairs. M. de Baudri still came, a persistent and
undaunted suitor, and Père Ambroise made his regular visits, walking in
the garden with Rosaline, and discoursing on the perils of heresy, but
closing his eyes to suspicious circumstances. He always walked with his
hands behind him, his large black figure seeming to absorb a good deal
of the sunlight, and a smile on his round, rosy face. What was the use,
after all, of making that poor old woman wretched? he argued
comfortably, and he did not force religious consolation upon Madame de
St. Cyr. He was willing to let the heretic burn in the next world, and she
blessed him in her heart every time she looked out at him as he ambled
through the maze of hedges.
There had been a season of quiet, a brief interval in the clash of war, and
the family at St. Cyr breathed more freely. Fear and suspicion seemed
dormant, and Rosaline’s laugh came more readily, except when she saw
how feeble her grandmother looked.
It was the last of October, and the three, Madame de St. Cyr, her
granddaughter, and François d’Aguesseau had just finished the midday
meal. It was a golden day, almost as warm as summer, and a monthly
rose swung its blossoms over the window-sill. M. d’Aguesseau had been
fortunate enough to secure a communication with his friends in England,
and had received a remittance which enabled him to pay his debts and to
provide for the future. But he said nothing of a change, for he saw that
Madame de St. Cyr was unable to travel, and he would not quit
Languedoc while Rosaline was surrounded with so many dangers. They
were talking of every-day matters, of the approach of winter, of the
chances for the success of the insurrection, when they were startled by
the tramping of a body of horse in the road, and the sharp call of a bugle.
Madame’s face paled and Rosaline and d’Aguesseau sprang to their feet.
She ran ahead of him out at the door and down the path to an opening in
the hedge which afforded a view of the highway.
“’Tis M. de Baudri at the head of his dragoons!” she exclaimed, shading
her eyes with her hand and looking out.
A company of dragoons were filing along the road, the even gait of the
cavalry horses keeping the whole line swinging on to the sound of the
bugle. The gay uniforms were soiled and there were powder stains, and
in the centre of the troop were six prisoners,—grim-looking men, in the
garb of peasants with the blouse of the Camisards, and bound, their arms
tied behind their backs and their feet tied under the bellies of their
horses. At the sight of them Rosaline drew back with a shudder, but it
was too late; M. de Baudri had seen her and drew rein, saluting her with
unruffled composure. As he paused, the cavalcade halted opposite the
gate, bringing the prisoners in full view of the château. They did not look
to the right or left, however, but stared grimly before them. Of the six,
five were wounded, and the blood flowed from an unbandaged wound on
one man’s head. Faint from the loss of it, he reeled in his saddle, but
uttered no complaint. Meanwhile M. de Baudri sat erect on his spirited
horse, his head uncovered, his rich uniform spotless, and his periwig
freshly curled. He looked smilingly into Rosaline’s pale face.
“A fair good morning, my Rose of Languedoc,” he said gallantly,
speaking too low for the ears of his dragoons; “I count it fortunate when
even my duty takes me past your door.”
She curtsied, her blue eyes looking straight before her and her lips firmly
closed. She was controlling herself with a mighty effort.
“Monsieur has surely unpleasant duties,” she said formally.
“The gayest in the world,” he replied with a careless laugh. “We have
cleaned out a cave full of Barbets this morning, and hung the leader
because he had the boldness to be shot in action. We swung his dead
body on a chestnut-tree—it hangs there with the burrs ready to ripen.
Nom de St. Denis!” he added, with a glance at his prisoners, “these
fellows would have been lucky to hang there too!”
Rosaline could endure no more.
“Mon Dieu!” she cried, “are you human? Can you see that poor man
bleed to death?”
De Baudri turned in his saddle and stared indifferently at the sufferer.
“A heretic, mademoiselle,” he remarked, with a gesture of disdain; “what
would you?”
“I would bind his wounds!” she retorted, taking a step nearer the gate;
but the sight had sickened her, the scene swam before her eyes, she
reeled, and would have fallen but for François, who had been standing a
few yards behind her, and who now sprang forward and caught her in his
arms.
“Why do you exhibit such cruelties to her?” he demanded sharply,
looking over her head into de Baudri’s eyes.
The latter had made a motion as if to spring from the saddle at the sight
of Rosaline’s white face, but now he straightened himself and returned
the other’s look with disdain.
“So!” he said with a sneer, “the menial turns into a champion. Mère de
Dieu, Sir Camisard, we will be pleased to accommodate you in Nîmes.”
“You may sometime have that pleasure, M. de Baudri,” d’Aguesseau
replied, coldly, and lifting Rosaline’s unconscious form in his arms, he
carried her back into the house.
The soldier remained a moment staring after them, his blue eyes on fire,
then he recollected where he was and gave an order. The bugle sounded
“Forward!” and the troop disappeared along the highroad to Nîmes,
leaving a cloud of dust in its track.
Meanwhile d’Aguesseau, fearing to alarm Madame de St. Cyr, carried
Rosaline into the hall and summoned Babet. But the girl began to
recover without any ministrations, and sat up on the high settle by the
door, the soft air reviving her; but her joyous mood was gone, she looked
out into the garden with unseeing eyes.
“Alas!” she said faintly, “I have been happy—and all this misery at my
door! I live a lie secure, and these martyrs die for their religion. What a
poor creature I am!”
Babet stood looking at her with a grim face; d’Aguesseau was silent, his
own conscience accusing him.
“It will not last,” Rosaline went on slowly, “I feel that trouble is coming
to us! What right have we to stand by and see it all and rejoice in our
false security. Ah, mon Dieu, that poor man!”
“It’s no use to seek trouble, mademoiselle,” Babet remarked, “it’ll find
us fast enough. I hear it grumbling like the thunder in the Cévennes
mountains. As for that poor man, never you mind; Cavalier will catch
some fat old curé for him!”
Retaliation was a salve to Babet’s moods; she was no saint and had no
longing to be a martyr. Rosaline shook her head.
“It must end,” she said, rising. “I will go to my grandmother. You may
cut the flowers to-day, Babet.”
She passed d’Aguesseau without a word; her emotion seemed to have
separated her from him, and all that day she was sad and preoccupied.
As for François d’Aguesseau, he went out through the garden and
passing the mulberry trees, descended a steep slope to the banks of a
stream which flowed behind St. Cyr. Following this, he passed through a
little forest of chestnut trees, heavily laden with green burrs, and came at
last to a deserted windmill. The tower was white and solid, and the wheel
still surmounted it though broken in several places, but the mill had long
been unused. The door stood open—on rusty hinges—and a heap of
straw lay in one corner, doubtless the resting-place of many a vagrant in
those evil times. On the threshold d’Aguesseau sat down, facing the
stream and the mossy slope. It was a favorite resort of his, because of its
solitude and stillness. Here many a battle of the heart had been fought
out, and here he came now to face another crisis. He sat there a long
while, and it was very quiet. Now and then a chestnut burr fell with a
soft thud in the little grove behind him; a squirrel came to the edge of the
bank and then leaped away; a fish jumped out of the water and then
plunged down again. Presently the breeze freshened, the old windmill
creaked as it turned a little, and the leaves rustled softly. At last the sun
sank lower in the west and sent long rays of light through the trees, and
the clouds overhead grew rosy.
François rose and walked toward the château; he was resolved to live
thus no longer. His presence was now more of a menace than a
protection to the women there. He had read the look in M. de Baudri’s
eyes, and he knew that he might expect the worst that a relentless enemy
could do. But it was not that; Rosaline’s words had struck home. He too
had been living a lie in security; he too felt himself a miserable coward
before the self-devotion of these poor peasants and wool-carders. He
must draw his sword for this forlorn hope; he must leave St. Cyr—ah,
there was the pang! Could he protect her at a distance? Could he watch
over her welfare while he fought with the Camisards? That was the chain
that had held him, and now even that must be broken.
 CHAPTER XIII
THE BATTLE HYMN
T night, when the shutters were closed and the doors secured, the
family sat in an upper room. Babet had come in to hear the Bible read by
Madame de St. Cyr, and they were all grouped about the table where the
candles were burning. The old woman was reading in a low voice, with
many pauses, and the faces around her were grave and even sad as they
listened. Suddenly the dog sprang up from her place at Rosaline’s feet
and began to bark, and the reading ceased.
“What is it? I hear something!” exclaimed the young girl, trying to
silence Truffe.
Babet was listening intently.
“I hear the sound of many feet,” she said.
D’Aguesseau rose and went to the window and, unfastening the shutter,
looked out. The moon was struggling to shine through drifting clouds;
one moment the world was lighted, the next it lay in darkness. In one of
these intervals of illumination he saw the scene without plainly enough.
The garden lay below the window, and beyond was a view of the
highroad, the sloping plain, and farther off the village of St. Césaire. He
could hear the sound of marching men, and as he looked they came in
sight on the road, filing slowly past the château, line after line, their
weapons gleaming in the moonshine. He watched them curiously; these
were not the dragoons,—he could distinguish the rough and ragged
appearance of the men even from a distance. He closed the shutter and
turned toward the women with a flush on his face; his opportunity was at
hand.
“They are passing the château,” he said, in a reassuring tone, “I will go
out and ascertain who they are. I think I cannot be mistaken in them.”
Rosaline’s blue eyes kindled.
“Are they Camisards?” she demanded.
“I think so,” he replied as he left the room.
The next moment they heard him go out, and Rosaline went to the
window to watch. Madame de St. Cyr’s face was very pale.
“They may be Florentines,” she said, “and if so—we shall scarcely
escape them.”
“They have halted,” her granddaughter replied from the window. “The
clouds have drifted wide apart now and the night is as white as that night
which frightened you, Babet. M. d’Aguesseau has gone out to them.”
“The bon Dieu defend us!” murmured madame; “the times are very
evil;” and she fell to praying silently.
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.”
The old woman clasped her hands and leaned back in her chair.
“Alas!” she said, “I sent out my two soldiers to die for their king, and I
cannot bid you stay, since you go to fight in the cause of the King of
kings, but I grieve to part with you thus.”
He took her hand and kissed it.
“Madame,” he said, “you have been as good to me as a mother, in my
extremity, and I will not forget your kindness. May God give me the
opportunity to requite it. I must strike a good blow in the cause of my
brethren, but I shall not forget my duty to you—and yours.”
Tears fell on her white cheeks, and she gave him her blessing.
Leaving her, he walked over to the window where the young girl had
remained motionless as a statue, her face set toward the scene without.
“Mademoiselle,” he said very low, “I bid you adieu. I know that you
have thought me lacking in the spirit to fight—but believe me, it was not
cowardice that held me at St. Cyr.”
She looked up at him, her blue eyes clear and fearless.
“The cause is sacred,” she said. “I—I am glad that—”
She broke off, and he filled up the sentence.
“Glad that I have the courage to go,” he said coldly.
“I never doubted that,” she replied gravely; “but oh, monsieur, if I could
be a man, I would fight—I can understand how you feel—the bon Dieu
defend you!”
He looked at her a moment sadly, and seemed to hesitate; then he turned
and went quietly away, leaving her standing there tongue-tied, her eyes
suddenly filled with hot tears. What had she done? she thought, as he
went down and out into the night. What had she done?
Her grandmother’s voice roused her.
“Has he gone to them?” she asked anxiously.
“Yes,” Rosaline replied, “and they are forming in columns again,—they
are going to march on.”
There was a pause; the women could hear that there were some orders
given and then it was strangely quiet, the men standing like statues in the
road. The clouds drifted over the moon and darkness enveloped the scene
again, and out of that still night arose the murmur of many voices, a
volume of sound, throbbing and gaining strength and sweetness and
solemnity.
“Hush!” said Rosaline, raising her hand, “the Sixty-eighth Psalm—the
battle hymn.”
Full and strong it rose, every word poured out from the hearts of those
stern men, and in that lonely spot, in the darkness, the sound was
profoundly solemn. Softly at first, and then sweetly and fearlessly,
Rosaline joined them, her rich young voice floating out to mingle with
the song of the soldiers.

“Que Dieu se montre seulement

Et l’on verra dans un moment
Abandonner la place;
Le camp des ennemis épars,
Épouvanté de toutes parts,
Fuira devant sa face.

“On verra tout ce camp s’enfuir,

Comme l’on voit s’évanouir
Une épaisse fumée;
Comme la cire fond au feu,
Ainsi des méchants devant Dieu,
La force est consumée.

“L’Éternel est notre recours;

Nous obtenons par son secours,
Plus d’une délivrance.
C’est Lui qui fut notre support,
Et qui tient les clefs de la mort,
Lui seul en sa puissance.

“À nous défendre toujours prompt,

Il frappe le superbe front
De la troupe ennemie;
On verra tomber sous ses coups
Ceux qui provoquent son courroux
Par leur méchante vie.”

The last verses grew softer as they marched away, and the singing died at
last in the distance.
Rosaline remained at her post, straining her eyes to search the darkness,
and Babet, releasing Truffe, came and stood beside her. They could see
the distant lights of St. Césaire, and this window in the daytime
commanded a view of the road that led in the direction of St. Hippolyte.
It was an hour of suspense, and none of the women thought of sleep. Old
Madame de St. Cyr lay back in her chair, engaged in silent devotion, and
the others watched and watched with tireless eagerness. The very
stillness was oppressive, and the darkness now was like a pall, close over
the earth.
“Ciel!” said Babet, “how quiet it is!—and black as soot. I wonder how
many men he had?”
“There seemed to be an army,” replied Rosaline, “but I suppose it could
not be that he had more than a thousand men, perhaps not so many, and
Nîmes is a hive of soldiers!”
“Bah!” ejaculated the other woman, grimly, “Cavalier can whip them—
he’ll have M. Montrevel’s periwig yet.”
Rosaline did not reply, her mind was elsewhere; she was thinking of that
dangerous march into the enemy’s country, of the fight that must ensue.
Suddenly there was a distant sound—the fire of musketry—the first clash
of battle, borne to them on the night air, and at the same moment they
saw the lights flashing red in St. Césaire.
“They have met the enemy!” Rosaline exclaimed, straining her eyes and
ears and leaning out of the window.
They could hear firing quite plainly now; and presently far off they saw a
blaze kindled, and then the flames leaped up into the night, like fiery
swords cutting the blackness in twain.
“They have set fire to the old château over there,” Rosaline said.
Madame de St. Cyr turned in her chair.
“Tell me what you see,” she exclaimed eagerly.
“Fire, grand’mère, leaping up in the night, and I hear the guns,” Rosaline
replied, “and now—see, see, Babet!—there are black figures outlined
against the flames! Ah, Dieu, they fight!—’tis a part of the battle—oh, if
I could but see it plainly!”
The rattle of small arms came to them, and now the boom of heavier
guns.
“They have brought artillery from Nîmes,” said Rosaline, in a low voice.
“Ah, see, Babet, another house has caught! ’Tis the village in the
highroad yonder; how it burns! The night is gaping as though we looked
into a fiery furnace. Oh, mon Dieu, what a fearful sight it is! There!
something exploded—see the timbers flying—some one perished when
they fell.”
She leaned from the window and gazed at the wild night with a
throbbing heart.
“Can you not see, Babet?” she cried. “I do—they fight there in the
firelight—see their black figures—hush! there is a heavy gun.”
“My eyes are old,” Babet replied; “to me ’tis the mouth of the infernal
regions—no more.”
Another pause while madame prayed softly.
“How goes it?” she asked again.
“I cannot tell—I cannot tell!” cried Rosaline, “but the fire has consumed
the houses, I think. It seems to sink now, and I cannot see so well.”
Again they watched in silence; but now the firing seemed to grow more
distant, and finally they heard it no more, though the flames still made
the night as red as blood. An hour passed—two—and they watched, and
could see no more, and could only divine the cause of the silence.
“Cavalier must have been driven back,” madame said, “else the fighting
would have lasted longer. May the bon Dieu guard our poor fellows!”
Again there was stillness, and the clock struck four, the clear little bell
startling them. Rosaline closed the shutter softly; her face was as white
as snow.
“’Tis over,” she said; “the flames have died away, darkness is there
again, and silence—and death!”
 CHAPTER XIV
“AND ALL FOR LOVE”
T day dawned calm, after the night of suspense; the October sky was
full of light clouds, and there was a chill in the air, the first suggestion of
winter, and the birds twittered in the ivy that clung below Rosaline’s
window. The daylight found no roses in her cheeks, but rather a new
consciousness of pain in her blue eyes. From an almost childlike
innocence and calm, her heart had been awakened; life in its fulness had
come upon her, and with it the sense of insecurity. All that she cared for
was threatened with terrible dangers; her own every-day life might pass
like a dream and she might find herself shut in by grim prison walls.
They were not of the “king’s religion,” and imprisonment, banishment,
death awaited them.
She looked out over the tranquil scene with an anxious heart. What had
happened yonder in that murky night? Who had fallen? She could see
soldiers on the distant highroad, and now and then a train of wagons
moving slowly in the direction of the St. Hippolyte road, but these things
told her no more than the flames of the night before. Cavalier had been
repulsed, no doubt, but how many had fallen? She could not tell, and her
heart throbbed and her hands trembled as she busied herself with the
morning tasks. She and her grandmother sat down as usual to breakfast,
but she could not eat; she quietly fed Truffe with her meal. Madame de
St. Cyr herself scarcely touched anything, and Babet removed the dishes
with a gloomy face. There was no conversation, there could not be while
the terror of the night was upon them, and d’Aguesseau’s vacant chair
seemed to mock them.
Once during the day Madame de St. Cyr let her knitting fall in her lap
and looked at Rosaline with tears in her eyes.
“Alas!” she said quietly, “I fear I shall never see him again—and he was
a brave man. But for me he would have gone long ago.”
Her granddaughter looked at her strangely. “Did you urge him to stay
here?” she asked.
“I prayed him to be near us,” the old woman replied. “I felt that I might
go, and there would be no one to help you. Père Ambroise would be all
on M. de Baudri’s side.”
“And you told M. d’Aguesseau that?” exclaimed Rosaline, her face
flushing.
“Something like it, yes,” Madame de St. Cyr rejoined sadly; “but the call
came and he obeyed it. May the bon Dieu protect him and us.”
Rosaline made no reply, but went out of the room and up the stairs to her
own, where she knelt in the window recess, her head on her arms. This,
then, was the key to all that she had not understood. He had stayed to
protect them, to serve them, and but for that might perhaps have been in
England, and her grandmother had demanded this return for her
friendship. Rosaline’s face burned; she did not look up, even when
Truffe came in search of her and thrust her head into her mistress’s lap.
Presently, however, she heard a horse stop at the gate, and peeping
cautiously through her screen of ivy, saw M. de Baudri, resplendent in
gold lace, coming up to the house. An ill-enough omen at such a time,
she thought, and remained at her post, refusing to go down when Babet
was sent for her. She heard his voice, smooth and pleasant, in the room
below, and after a while she saw him go away again, sitting very erect in
his saddle, the picture of a soldier. After his departure she found Madame
de St. Cyr sad and nervous. He had told her of the skirmish with
Cavalier, speaking of the affair with contempt. The dragoons had beaten
off the Camisards, killed twenty and taken sixteen wounded prisoners.
He had come to press his suit again and to covertly threaten Madame de
St. Cyr. The old woman did not tell all to Rosaline; she dared not. But
the girl read much in the anxious eyes that followed her as she moved
about, waiting on her grandmother, for she had sent Babet to Nîmes, to
learn from Charlot, if possible, the names of the prisoners, the list of the
dead. It would be an infinitely difficult task to learn this without
suspicion; but if any one could help them, the little cobbler could, and he
was known to be of the king’s religion.
Never did a day drag more wearily, but at last the sun descended toward
the west, the shadows lengthened, and Rosaline’s doves came cooing to
their rest. Babet had not returned yet from Nîmes. Madame de St. Cyr
had her supper, served by her granddaughter, and then Rosaline went out
with Truffe. She walked slowly through the garden, where the autumn
had already laid its fingers, and then she passed out into the grove of
mulberry trees, where the path led to the old windmill. The sun had set,
and the clouds were red and purple overhead, and between them were
great rifts of pale blue. The mulberry leaves rustled softly; but save for
that it was still. The air was chill, and the openings between the trees
made broad avenues of light and shade.
Rosaline had walked but a little way, when the dog sprang forward with
a quick, short bark of welcome, and she saw a man coming toward her.
At the sight of his face she stood still, her own turning from white to red.
A moment ago she had thought of him as perhaps lying in some
loathsome dungeon in Nîmes, or dead, and this sudden meeting took
away her self-control; she was trembling when he came up. Looking at
her, he read more in her eyes than he had dared to hope for.
“I have come to assure myself of your safety, mademoiselle,” he said
quietly, “and then to go away again.”
“Babet is in Nîmes now, monsieur, trying to find out the names of the
prisoners,” Rosaline replied. “We did not know what had happened and
we feared the worst.”
“It was a short, sharp battle,” he said. “We took some ammunition, but
they brought up reinforcements from Nîmes and we were forced to fall
back. Cavalier is a soldier, indeed.”
“M. de Baudri was at the château,” she rejoined. “He told us of the dead
and the prisoners, and my grandmother could not rest until she knew.”
There was a pause, and he watched her face.
“And you, mademoiselle?” he asked gravely.
Her eyes sought the ground.
“I also was anxious, monsieur,” she said with an effort.
“Yet last night you wished me to go,” he remarked, unmercifully.
She turned toward him with a grave face.
“I did not know until to-day, monsieur,” she said, “that my grandmother
had asked you to stay with us to protect us—’twas more than she had a
right to ask.”
“Not more than she had a right to ask,” he replied, “but I remained for
another reason—can you not divine it, mademoiselle?”
The blue eyes avoided his, and the color came back into her cheeks.
“I have no right perhaps to tell you now, when the future looks so dark,”
he said, “and I have felt that you were displeased at my inactivity. Yet—
last night—when I was facing death I longed to speak—to tell you all
that was in my heart—even if you were indifferent. Love cannot always
be silent—God forgive me if I break in upon your innocent peace with
my life and its passions and regrets. The world was desolate when I saw
you—I had lost all—and then I looked out of my darkness and saw your
face. I cannot but speak—we must part now and I must know if you care
—ever so little. Dieu! how black the world was when I saw this tall,
white lily! You told me last night that you were glad to have me go—I
am a fool, no woman ever said that to the man she loved.”
He paused, and the leaves rustled overhead. Her face was averted and he
could not see her eyes.
“Forgive me,” he said hoarsely; “I did not mean to speak—but one
cannot always smother the heart’s utterances! You are so young, so
beautiful, so innocent—forgive me, and let me serve you still.”
She turned and looked at him, but he could not read her eyes.
“You do not understand,” she replied softly. “I wanted you to go because
—”
“You thought me a coward,” he exclaimed harshly.
“Nay, monsieur,” she said, “I wanted you to go because a woman wants
the man she—she loves to be a hero—”
He caught her hands, looking eagerly into her face.
“Is it possible?” he cried.
She smiled through her tears.
“I wanted you to be a hero,” she answered, “and when you went I
thought—my heart would break!”
Her fair head was on his shoulder now, and he kissed her, the perils of
their lives forgotten, all the world changed in an instant and only Love
triumphant. After a while he broke the silence.
“Are you happy?” he asked her softly, holding her a little away from him
that he might see her face.
She smiled radiantly, but did not answer, and he went on, questioning her
that he might have a fresh assurance of her affection.
“You want me to go and you do not,” he said; “what am I to think?”
“Yes, I wanted you to go,” she replied, a flush on her face. “I could not
bear to have you seem less brave or daring than other men—or to lack
zeal for your religion—and then you went! And—and I cannot bear to
have you go to face danger—even death itself!”
“Oh, thou perfect woman!” he exclaimed, smiling; “I must be a true
knight and yet you would not have me in danger.”
She smiled, turning her face aside.
“Yes—yes, ’tis that,” she answered very low. “I want you to be the
bravest of the brave, and yet—oh, mon Dieu, I cannot bear to see you in
any danger!”
He held her to his heart again with many caresses.
“What can I do?” he asked. “I cannot be both,—your constant attendant
and a soldier in the field. Ah, Rosaline, love is king—not even the perils
of battle can defeat him. I can love you and fight too, but I cannot flee
from danger for your sweet sake.”
“And I could not bear to see you flee,” she said, “and yet my heart was
torn when I knew that you were in the midst of that fight in the
darkness.”
“Take comfort, my dearest,” he said softly, “let us forget the perils and
think only of each other. Ah, my darling, I little thought, when I was in
the cobbler’s upper room so downcast, that the light of my life would
shine in upon me there. I loved you from the first moment that I saw
you.”
“Did you?” she cried with shining eyes, “oh, tell me—tell me how it
was!”
And he told her, Love’s language being eloquent to such ears, as it has
been always, as it will be while the round world moves.
Then they walked on, hand in hand, through the trees, the soft moss
beneath their feet, the pale October sky overhead, and only the murmur
of the leaves. They came presently to the old mill, and went down to the
edge of the stream, and then he asked her again the question that was
first in his thoughts,—
“Are you happy, sweetheart, tell me?”
“Ah, François,” she answered, “we are too happy—’tis that—I am
afraid!”
“Of what, dear heart?” he asked gently, “surely, not that our love can
die?”
“Not that,” she replied, “not that! I have been light of heart, careless as a
child. I never was afraid before, but now—oh, François, if you were
taken from me it would kill me.”
He clasped her close, laying his cheek against her soft one.
“But that could not be,” he said soothingly; “not even death could part us
save for a little while, my heart, for our souls are immortal—and they are
one.”
She clung to him, her eyes full of tenderness.
“’Tis so,” she murmured, “our souls are immortal, I never felt it so
strongly before! Love touches the heart and all the world is different—
ah, mon Dieu, ’tis thy gift to us! See, François,” she added, “is not the
world more beautiful, the sky more tender? Do not the birds sing more
sweetly to-day? And is it because we love?”
“It must be so, my Rosaline,” he answered gently; “the Garden of Eden
must have blossomed so to welcome Eve—and love makes the world
more beautiful each day.”
“And it shall make me better,” she rejoined; “’tis said that sorrow refines
the heart, but it is joy that fills it with kindness. I am sure of it, for I was
never half so full of pity for the unhappy as I am now; my cup overflows
and others thirst. Ah, François, let us be good to others always, for that is
love.”
“Your very presence is love, Rosaline,” he answered softly, “your face,
your eyes, your voice. When I first saw you in the little shop I was a
desperate man, but from that moment my heart was changed. You
entered like an angel, and as an angel I adored you.”
“And I made that difference in your life, François?” she said tenderly,
—“I, Rosaline de St. Cyr. Ah, Dieu, am I not blessed?”
She stood away from him on the mossy bank, the stream lying brown
and placid below her feet. Behind her the tree trunks were outlined
against the rosy west, and the sweet stillness of twilight was enfolding