The baker from the rue Saint Honoré was so cross that he glowered at his wife when she handed him a cup of steaming, nicely sweetened coffee and a plate of cream buns. He was worried, which was one reason for his being cross. He snapped out these words as he took a long drink of the good coffee:

“There’s no telling what will be standing from one day to the next. They’re looting and burning everything that takes their fancy! They’ve got the idea this place is too aristocratic. They know it used to be serving royalty. You mark my words, they’ll get us yet!” The baker put his head in his hands with a gesture of despair.

He meant the mobs which went from one end of the city to the other, plundering and stealing and destroying everything upon which they could lay their hands. They were mad with hunger, many of them, and there was no one to guide them; rather were they encouraged in their lawlessness by the very men who should have curbed them, and they lost all semblance of civilized beings.

“You’re as bad as any of them, keeping that boy a prisoner upstairs. Why don’t you put on a uniform and go out with our brave soldiers and fight for liberty in a clean way, instead of staying at home and turning coward and villain!” exclaimed the bakery woman with sudden courage.

“I’ll ask you to keep a civil tongue in your head and I’ll have no more of your spoiling of that boy. What he needs is a little wholesome discipline, with his proud face and haughty ways. I couldn’t get a word out of him when I went up there last night; but I’ll try something more persuasive than words if he doesn’t look out. I’ll not put up with his impudence, and I’m going to find out if he knows anything of where the girl might be. I’m going to find out now!”

The baker finished his coffee with one long gulp and rose from his chair in the outer kitchen. It was evening, and because of the bad times in that quarter they were closing early. He went through the storeroom, up the stairs to the room where Lisle was. He unlocked the door and went in, closing the door behind him.

Lisle was standing by the table. As the baker came up to him he pushed aside the paper and pen he had been using.

“I’ve come for a word with you and you’ll do well to answer me straight. Where do you think the girl may be?”

The baker came close up to Lisle and regarded him severely. Lisle returned his look steadily.

“What girl?” he asked.

“You know well enough what girl. You left her there in the room of your house when you went to the cellar for wood. She wasn’t to be found when we looked for her. She wasn’t anywhere about. You’ll have to say where you think she may be, and you’ll have to say it quick!”

Lisle smiled, leaning back against the side of the table and looking the baker over impudently.

“You don’t look as stupid as you sound,” he said.

“Is that so, you young high and mighty. I’ll find a way to take you down a peg. I’ll have none of your impertinence. You’ll give me civil words and you’ll give me a straight answer or I’ll give you something you’ll not relish, that I can tell you. Where is the De Soigné child?”

“I don’t know where she is. I haven’t any idea, but I’m glad she’s safe from you. Who knows, perhaps some one has come to her aid. That’s what I’m hoping.” As Lisle spoke, Humphrey Trail’s honest face came into his mind, and with it a certain confidence. Often during these past weeks he had thought of Humphrey, and gone over in his mind their last meeting. His pride had not let him take Humphrey’s advice and he had kept on with his visits to the bakery shop. He would have given a great deal to have seen Humphrey just at that minute. There was only one other person whom he would rather have seen, and that was Dian, the shepherd.

“There’s one thing I know,” cried the baker, “and that is you need a good taste of a whip. And, as sure as my name’s Charles Tortot, you’ll get it this very night. I’ll see to it that you shed some big tears before you’re many hours older, my fine fellow!” The baker was so angry that he stuttered as he spoke, and his temper was not improved by Lisle’s next remark.

“You couldn’t make me cry and you know it. I’m not afraid of you, and I think you know that, too,” he said. He was still leaning back against the table, his hands on the side of it. The baker glared at him but he had to admit to himself that his prisoner certainly did not look frightened, no matter how he may have felt. The baker looked at him for a moment, at his blue velvet suit, the freshly washed lace frills at his wrists, his white face and blue eyes, and the bright gold of his hair, tied back with its flare of ribbon. A silly whim of his wife’s and one that he should put a stop to. He stood there frowning at Lisle in the dusky twilight, and Lisle’s proud eyes frowned back at him.

Dian came in through the alley and climbed the rickety stairs to the room on the first landing. He had seen Raoul go through the gates an hour before, and knew that with him had gone the letters, one to Champar himself, and one for him to deliver to Grigge in Pigeon Valley. He was thinking of Lisle as he climbed the stairs, trying to plan out the best way to get a message to him.

He knocked on the door and said, “This is Dian,” and Vivi opened it for him, smiling a welcome.

“Dian, stay and talk with us. I have told Vivi everything I know and she has told me so many funny things about her life, but we’re tired now.” Rosanne came running across the room as she spoke, and, catching hold of the shepherd’s hand, drew him over by the window. He noted that she was pale, and for a moment his heart sank. Like Humphrey, he felt a responsibility for them all, but, unlike him, was able, after a moment, to banish his forebodings.

“You will have many adventures to talk over with your friends when you are an old, old woman, Mademoiselle,” he said to her smilingly.

“See what we have for supper! Humphrey brought us garlic and some fresh lettuce,” Rosanne went on, trying to be cheerful, and receiving a reward in Dian’s pleased smile.

They had put an overturned box by the one small window and had spread their supper on it. The lettuce and garlic reposed in a tin plate in the center of the improvised table, and a loaf of bread lay on a clean piece of paper at one side. Next to the plate of lettuce was a small glass filled with a few early violets. Dian came up to the table and stood looking down at it and at Rosanne. He touched one of the violets with his finger.

“A farmer woman gave them to me. She was sitting in her cart near the west gate. I told her that I had some young friends who would love them,” he said.

“Dian, they are like those at Pigeon Valley. Dian, think of it—Pigeon Valley. I was telling Vivi just now about the lilies on the south terrace at Les Vignes, clusters, crowds of them, white and gold. They’ll bloom in June, Dian!” Two tears rolled down Rosanne’s face, but she smiled through them. “I want to see Marie Josephine more than ever to-night. I——”

Dian put his hand gently on her shoulder.

“You are brave,” he said, and then turning toward Vivi he added: “Vivi is brave, too. She is helping us all the time.”

It was the best thing in the world he could have said, for Rosanne forgot herself at once and thought of Vivi.

“Yes, she is the best friend. She is so good to me. When she comes in she has always something for me, and when I am restless she dances for me, and then I dance for her. She has learned to do the minuet with me nicely, but she likes her own dances better.”

Vivi followed Dian to the door when he went out, and as he opened it Minuit came in, rubbing herself against him as she passed him.

Dian walked toward the city. The sky was bright with stars. He thought of the stars as they shone on the meadows of Les Vignes.

When he came to the corner leading into the rue Saint Honoré, he stood still. There was the way of the Champs Élysées, in the evening always the more quiet of the avenues. The tumbrils, which passed there all day, stopped at sundown when the guillotine finished its day’s work, and the crowds gathered along the rue Royale or about the Place de la Bastille, or down the length of the rue Saint Honoré.

Dian hesitated. He felt so tired of crowds, even of the thought of them, and, like Rosanne, he wanted Pigeon Valley. Still he hesitated. Years before, one wild, cold night, he had been a good distance from Les Vignes and had been coming home late. There had been two roads. One he knew well, for it led straight across the fields to his sheepfold door; the other was over rough stubble, hard and uneven from the early frost. One was easy going and he knew every inch of it, the other was uphill and a long way around. He took the difficult road, and halfway to Les Vignes he had come across one of his lambs, half dead with cold. It had strayed from the others and lay helpless and bleating on the stark hillside. He had lifted it and carried it home under his cloak, warmed and comforted. Something had told him to take the harder path, and the same trust had led him through it. He turned toward the rue Saint Honoré and as soon as he was halfway down the street he found himself one of a wild mob. All about him hoarse voices were screaming. He was carried along with the pressing crowd.

The baker was angry at Lisle, but he was curious, too. He had never seen any one like him. He had threatened to whip him and yet Lisle had still dared to defy him about the girl, and had spoken with an amazing impudence. Tortot went toward the door.

“We’ll see if I can’t rid you of some of that impertinence, my fine fellow,” he snarled.

While the baker had been speaking, there was a strange roaring sound somewhere in the distance, and when he finished it seemed to be very near. He paused uncertainly and his face showed white in the growing dusk. He ran over to the door and opened it, and as he did so there was a frightful crashing sound of breaking glass, mad shouting, then another crash, and the sound of a door being broken down.

Tortot stood as one dazed, but even in his fright and bewilderment he had presence of mind enough to put himself in front of the door as Lisle made a rush for it. The baker’s broad bulk completely barred the way and he was quick enough to prevent Lisle from ducking under his arm. There was the sound of tables and chairs being overthrown, more shouting, and then the bakery woman’s voice calling lustily:

“Charles, Charles, they are destroying us!”

It was only for a couple of minutes that Lisle and the baker struggled in the doorway. Then there was a burst of sound from the kitchens, the crash of pewter and iron cooking pans and tins being thrown down, voices harshly singing the “Ça Ira,” and the next instant a tall figure, with ragged red locks about his shoulders, swung himself up the stairway, knocked the baker down with one fierce thrust of his arm, and catching Lisle about the waist, threw him up over his shoulder.

He was down again like a flash, through the storeroom to the bakery shop where confusion reigned. Cakes were scattered broadcast, and broken china dishes lay in scattered heaps on the floor and counter. Dian with one quick, strong gesture had flung his cloak about Lisle as he ran with him down the stairway. Holding him close in his arms he ran on through the shop, out into the freedom of the streets!

Dian ran steadily and easily. He was used to long stretches of countryside, but he was not used to the tortuous, winding streets of Paris. He knew that some of those in the shop must have seen him, but as he had completely covered Lisle with his cloak he hoped that, had any one given him a thought, it would be only to surmise that he had run off with some especially choice piece of loot.

He turned in and out of several narrow, twisted streets, and at last stopped for a moment in the shadow of a doorway. He listened but could hear nothing but the usual roar of the city all about them. Then he put Lisle gently to the ground, throwing the cloak back so that he could see his face in the dim light.

“It’s Dian, Little Master,” he said.

Lisle, having been for several weeks confined in one small room with little fresh air, and having nothing to eat for the last two days, or at any rate, only enough to appease the bakery woman who had been concerned at his indisposition, was dazed and weak. He had been threatened one moment by the baker, and the next moment grabbed by some one, covered with a cloak, and run with at a tremendous pace, and now in a doorway in the heart of Paris, Dian was holding him, speaking in quiet, familiar tones.

Lisle put his head down in the hollow of his arm and stood very still for a moment.

“We’re going home, Little Master. We’ll be there soon,” Dian said again, and Lisle turned toward him as children and animals always did.

“Yes, home,” he said weakly, but when Dian offered to carry him, he shook his head.

“It’s better so, Little Master, for dressed as you are you will not be safe in the streets. It’s near now, and soon you’ll be safe and quiet.” Dian lifted him as he spoke and walked quickly with his long, easy strides until he came to the Saint Frère house. He went in through the cellar window, turned and drew Lisle in after him, then listened intently. There was no sound anywhere. Then he struck the flint and tinder which he kept on a shelf near the window and lit a lanthorn which he also kept on the shelf. It was the same green lanthorn which Marie Josephine had lit when she went down to the secret cellar.

Then Dian spoke to Lisle.

“Little Master, I am taking you where you will be safe. It is a place that Monsieur your grandfather loved, and it was built by the Lisle Saint Frère whom you have always loved to think about. Come with me, and mind your steps well, for we are going down a secret stairway into a hidden room.” As he spoke, Dian led Lisle across the cellar, and stooping at the seventh stone, pressed it and it opened.

Down, down into the gloom below them, the last Lisle Saint Frère followed Dian the shepherd, down to the cellar built by the first Lisle Saint Frère, deep in the heart of the earth!