Dian heard the great clock on the stairs at Les Vignes boom out the twelve strokes of midnight as he said the few hasty words of farewell to Neville. He saw with satisfaction that the moon was out and that the wind was changing. He walked down the great driveway which led through the demesne. It was a good mile to the gates, but with his long, easy strides he covered the ground with amazing quickness. At the left was the dark outline of the wood and behind lay the wide terraces, grey and bare this late November night.

Dian turned to his left at the far end of the driveway and entered a narrow path bordered on each side by slim poplar trees, then he climbed through a narrow opening in a low hedge and found himself on the highroad. He walked quickly along until he came to the row of straggling huts to which Jean had brought the loaves of bread on the August night when he had tried to keep his cousin Grigge from taking one whole loaf for himself.

He knocked softly on the door of one of the huts and waited, listening. After a moment he heard a sound from within and then the door opened slightly and a gaunt, thin face showed itself. It was the face of Grigge, and when he saw the shepherd standing there, he came outside, closing the door softly behind him. He had on the same old, shabby work clothes that he had worn all day, having lain down for the night on his heap of straw without removing them, glad of the little warmth they afforded him.

“Dian!” he exclaimed softly. “Dian! Where are you going?”

The shepherd put his sack on the ground and, feeling in the inside pocket of his cloak, brought out a goatskin purse and handed it to the boy, who took it wonderingly.

“I am going on something of a journey, Grigge, and I am leaving my sheep in your care. I am trusting them to you and I know that in spite of your wild ways, lad, you will keep them faithfully for me. Let them pasture until the snow comes and then be on guard for the wolves. Here is a bit of money, only a bit. Mother Barbette will give you bread when she has it to give, but there will not be overmuch for her and Jean. Farmer Lessoir will sell you flour, such as it is. You must see to it that your mother and the young children have their share.”

Dian put his hand kindly on Grigge’s shoulder, and he saw that the color had come into the boy’s cheeks at his words. Grigge caught hold of the edge of the shepherd’s cloak and looked up at him imploringly, for it seemed as though he could not bear to say good-by to the one person in all the world whom he loved and trusted.

“Oh, do not go away and leave me, Dian. It is awful to think of the winter’s coming. What shall I do without you, Dian! No one will have aught to do with me but you.” Grigge turned up the frayed collar of his poor jacket as he spoke, for the chill air swirled about him unmercifully.

“You are to be a man while I am away. Try to be brave and to add a little comfort to the lives of your poor mother and your brothers and sisters. Go to your aunt for counsel. She is a good woman and means well by you all.” Dian lifted his sack as he spoke and threw it over his shoulder.

“I’m not welcome there. I’ll have naught to do with them,” Grigge answered sullenly, but realizing that his friend was about to depart he caught his cloak again. “I’ll do well by the sheep, and I’ll try to think of the others when the hunger is tearing at my heart. Will you not tell me where you are going and why you leave this way in the stillness of the night?”

Dian shook his head. “That I cannot do, Grigge, but if the good God will it, I shall come back again. Remember all I have said and guard my sheep well, for they are dear indeed to me. Hold your courage through the winter. Who knows what good may come by spring!” He touched the boy’s shoulder in farewell and was off down the wide road.

Grigge gazed after him, his hands clasped together, a sob catching his throat. It seemed as though all that he knew of kindliness and comradeship was going farther and farther from him down the wind-swept road. He had never known anything in his life but discomfort. He had always been hungry and in winter he had always been cold. He was rough and selfish and sullen and he knew it and most of the time did not care. But as he stood there that night by the low door of his wretched home, Grigge determined to be different! He went inside, and the wind slammed the door behind him before he could catch it. The noise awoke his little sister Letta, who whined, “It is cold; it is cold.”

“You are no colder than the rest of us,” Grigge answered roughly, but, after hesitating a moment, he put the piece of shawl over her and then tumbled down on to his mound of straw by the door.

Dian hardly heeded the weather as he quickly covered the ground. His thoughts were with the lad he had left and the sad lot of the people who lived at the very gates of a great house. He felt sad at heart, but said to himself, as he had often done before, “There is no use in your grieving for them, for that will not help them, and to help them is your dearest wish.” Grigge was only one of thousands of young lads who were made old and bitter by lack of food and the injustice that bound their lives. Dian knew little of the great conflict that was raging in Paris or of the armies massing throughout the land. He knew that the people, who for centuries had been overtaxed and overburdened by the arrogance and indifference of the nobility, had at last risen in revolt, but he did not know that they were being governed by bad, unscrupulous men and that there was no longer either law or order or justice in Paris or in other parts of France. He had thought that it was right for him to go to Paris, having had a feeling, for many days past, that the young Comte Lisle, whom he loved, was in danger. So he had made his simple preparations, telling only Neville, whom he knew to be faithful, where he was going.

The evening on which Dian told the children, in Mother Barbette’s cottage, about the young page in blue and silver was a wintry one in Paris. The snow had begun to fall, slanting mistlike through dreary alleyways. Although it was only a slight scurry and melted almost as soon as it touched the ground, it covered, for a little while, much of the soot and grime, making a fairy tracery about the roofs of the old houses. The sleet blew in a rakish, zigzag way across the alley where Vivi lived and far down the dim street beyond it. Curving northward, it swirled past close-shut shop windows and gaunt, noisy tenements, until it reached the great square in the middle of which stood the guillotine!

Then, in a sort of frenzy, it rioted down a wide avenue, spending itself at last against the windows of a house, close shut behind iron gates, in a quiet corner of Paris.

Lisle Saint FrÈre and Rosanne de SoignÉ were spending the evening in the great drawing-room in front of the fire. Rosanne knelt by the dying flames, peering at some nuts which she was roasting in a bed of coals. Her fair hair fell about her shoulders, and she had on the same white frock which she had worn on the night that she and Marie Josephine hid in the balcony. She shivered in spite of the fact that she wore a little velvet jacket over her frock.

“One of them is almost ready to pop. That’s yours. Wouldn’t it be a jolly thing if we could roast one for Marie Josephine?” As she spoke Rosanne leaned forward and picked out the nut with a pair of long bronze tongs and laid it on the iron fender to cool. She had stayed with Lisle and his mother ever since her mother had gone to nurse her father. Events had crowded thick and fast after the departure of the others for Pigeon Valley. Madame de SoignÉ had had just time to get away before the gates were closely guarded, and her departure had been made possible only because of an excellent disguise. There had been no word from her, and Lisle and his mother did what they could to keep Rosanne from feeling the anxiety which they themselves experienced. She never left the house and they told her nothing of what happened in the city. She was used to believing what she was told, but she thought a great deal about it all, and she was more troubled than they knew.

“Do you think we shall be going to Pigeon Valley soon, Lisle?” she asked suddenly.

Lisle shook his head, eating the nut gingerly, for it was still hot. He and Rosanne had not known each other very well in the old days, but they had become fairly well acquainted in the three months that they had been together. Lisle did not find Rosanne half as interesting as the little sister whom he missed so much, but he liked her, and he had a protecting feeling for her. She was his responsibility, just as his mother was, and he wanted to do his best for both of them. This was what made things so hard for him, having to be careful for their sakes. What adventures he could have if he were alone!

The days had been dull enough, in spite of all the happenings in the city, and time dragged heavily. They had had no word from Neville since he had left for Pigeon Valley, and the longing to hear from, the others at Les Vignes seemed sometimes more than they could bear, but each hid his emotion from the other. They had been taught to do this always, and now their training was making it easier for them to seem cheerful.

“Do you think we can go to Pigeon Valley in the spring, Lisle? Please answer me,” Rosanne persisted. When Lisle still did not reply, she went on, trying to hide the tremble in her voice: “It is just as Marie Josephine said. You think that you are so very grown-up. You will not tell me of all you fear. I know that we are in great trouble. I’ve thought more about it since yesterday morning when Madame Saint FrÈre went to your Great-aunt Hortense, who is so very ill. There were tears in your mother’s eyes. I saw them. She is only to be away for a few days, and yet she did not like to leave us. Tell me, Lisle, please tell me all about it. I know it is a revolution and that I may not go out on the street to walk or ride and that the servants have left us and dear maman has not sent me any word since she went to papa. Tell me, Lisle, is it all so dreadful?”

Rosanne came and stood looking up at Lisle, her brown eyes eagerly watching his blue ones as he answered her.

“It’s a bad time,” he said slowly. “It can’t last much longer. Yes, it is a revolution and there is danger for some people, but we are safe enough. There is no reason why we should fear.” Lisle was glad that Rosanne had spoken. It made them seem more like comrades and he found that it was a relief to talk over the situation. He saw that she was missing his mother and he felt vaguely that he must try to divert her. He, too, missed his mother, but of course he would not admit it even to himself. The comtesse had shown a softer side than any he had ever seen before during the past months that they had been alone. The three had sat for long hours by the fire and she had told of the gay, careless times when she had been a girl, when there had been nothing but gay balls and gilded sedan chairs, laughter and satins to make up her days. Now all her friends were gone, many being imprisoned in the Abbaye or other prisons of Paris, some having escaped to England, some to different parts of France, all because they and their ancestors had oppressed the people.

Rosanne was right when she said that Lisle’s mother had not wanted to leave them even for a few days. Great-aunt Hortense was ill and she had sent her servant with a note begging her great-niece to come to her bedside. She lived only a few squares away.

“Don’t worry, mother, we shall do quite well, Rosanne and I. Henri will look after us as to food, and you’ll find us roasting nuts by the fire when you come back. I shall take good care of Rosanne,” Lisle had assured his mother.

The comtesse had put both her slender hands on his shoulders as she answered him. “And of yourself, my son, my only son, my beloved,” she had said. Lisle and Rosanne had thought often, since she left, of her emotion.

“Teach me the gavotte steps again, Lisle. I shall soon be able to dance quite well.” Rosanne held out her hand as she spoke. “I can hum the melody again like this. Let us see if we can do it all the way through!”

Lisle thought it a rather silly thing to do, but he was uneasy about Rosanne’s missing his mother, and he felt that it was his duty to keep her cheerful. He found that he enjoyed the dance, for he directed his companion in the different measures and he liked telling people how to do things.

“You bow so beautifully, Lisle. You are just like the cavaliers on Monsieur Watteau’s fans,” Rosanne exclaimed admiringly, as they reached the end of a measure.

“You will soon do very well if you will keep your mind on it,” Lisle answered as they hummed the bewitching melody of the last measure and took their positions to begin.

Rosanne colored with pleasure. She would never have dreamed six months before that she would be dancing with Lisle Saint FrÈre. She thought of the August night when she and Marie Josephine had watched him from the balcony as he danced with her cousin CÉcile. What would Lisle think if he knew what a very naughty thing they had done? Sometime it would be fun to tell him!

As he danced, Lisle thought of something else his mother had said: “I would have so little fear if I were leaving you with Neville. We can trust him always, but we do not know, even though he has seemed faithful, whether or not we can always trust Henri.” Lisle had said nothing then to his mother. Much as he would have liked to have reassured her, he did not trust Henri and never could pretend that he did.

There was yet another thing that Lisle was thinking about. It made him say to himself sternly: “You should be ashamed to let yourself fancy such things. It is not fit that one who soon will go out to fight for the king and queen should have silly fancies.” This is what Lisle called his fancy. He had gone several times to the bakery where he had seen Humphrey Trail, and twice of late he thought that on his return he was being followed! He liked going to the bakery. He would sit at one of the glass tables enjoying his eau sucrÉ and a mÉringue and watching the well-to-do merchants’ wives, who for the time being had nothing to fear, come and go. No one had seemed to notice him particularly. The bakery woman had looked at him a little curiously as she did up her crisp cakes in neat boxes. He always wore the shabby old groom’s suit and he never spoke, except to give his order and to buy the cakes for Rosanne.

Lisle had thought often of Humphrey Trail since the night that the farmer had given him the Saint Antoine address. The man had meant well. Of that Lisle was sure. There was comfort also in the thought that he could find Humphrey if he should need him. Nevertheless, he had not heeded Humphrey’s warning. He had continued to go to the bakery. It had been one of his few pleasures during those strange weeks so suddenly different from anything he had ever known. Never before had he eaten in a cake shop or bought things for himself. Everything was changing. Six months more and there would be no shop. The shoppers themselves would be hiding for their lives.

“Henri will be back soon with the meat, and then let us have supper in here by the fire,” suggested Rosanne as they stopped to rest from their dancing.

The fire had died down, and Lisle saw that there was no wood left in the wood box of hammered silver on the stone hearth. It was very cold and he noticed, now that they had ceased dancing, that Rosanne was shivering. Where was Henri? Why was he not taking care of them?

“I shall go out into the halls and call for Henri, and if I do not find him, I shall go to the cellars for some wood. Stay here by the little bit of fire that is left. I shall only be gone a few minutes,” Lisle said to Rosanne, and leaving her he went out into the great marble hall. He went over to the entrance door and, opening it, looked out at the fast falling snow. As he did so, he thought he saw something dark in the shadow of one of the lower doors, but when he peered again through the darkness and the sleet, there was nothing.

He closed the door and walked down the hall. He could hear Rosanne singing to herself in the drawing-room:

He called “Henri,” but there was no reply, and so he walked on down the hall, through a long corridor as Marie Josephine had done when she had gone to the secret cellar. He turned a corner, went down another corridor, opened a door, and descended a steep flight of stairs. He knew that they must have wood to last them until Henri should come in with their supper. He saw that the small door at the end of the cellar that led to the basement was open, a blast of cold wind drifting in. He stooped and picked up as much wood as he could carry. Then he stood up, holding the sticks against the dark velvet of his tunic. At that moment some one caught him firmly about the waist. The wood fell with a thump to the stone floor as his arms were tied quickly and skillfully behind him. He was lifted across some one’s shoulders, and a moment later felt the rush of cold wind in his face. Then his captor began to run with him, swiftly, through the fast falling snow!