She hurried into her little sleeping place, and had a long debate with herself whether she should instantly go to bed and pray that Jacques might be killed at Saumur, or whether she should array herself in all her charms, and literally dazzle her lover into fondness and obedience by her beauty and graces—­after many tears the latter alternative was decided on.

It was a lovely summer evening, and at about eight o’clock hardly a person in the whole village was to be found within doors; the elderly were sitting smoking at their doors, husbands were saying a thousand last words to their weeping wives, young men were sharpening their swords, and preparing their little kit for the morrow’s march, and the girls were helping them; but everything was done in the open air.  Jean and Peter Stein were secretly preparing for a stolen march to Saumur; for their father was still inexorable, and they were determined not to be left behind when all the world was fighting for glory.  Old Michael was smoking at his ease, and Jacques was standing talking to him, wondering in his heart whether Annot could be really angry with him, when that young lady reappeared in the kitchen.

“Where have you been, Annot?” said Michael Stein, “you didn’t get your supper, yet child.”

“I was sick with the heat, father; walking home from St. Laud’s.”

“I would not have you sick tonight, Annot, and our friends leaving us before sun-rise tomorrow.  Here is M. Chapeau complaining you are a bad hostess.”

“M.  Chapeau has enough to think of tonight, without my teasing him,” said Annot; “great soldiers like him have not time to talk to silly girls.  I will walk across the green to Dame Rouel’s, father; I shall be back before sunset.”

And Annot went out across the green, at the corner of which stood the smith’s forge.  Jacques Chapeau was not slow to follow her, and Dame Rouel did not see much of either of them that evening.

“Annot,” said Jacques, calling to his sweetheart, who perseveringly looked straight before her, determined not to know that she was followed.  “Annot, stop awhile.  You are not in such a hurry, are you, to see Dame Rouel?”

“Ah, M. Chapeau, is that you?—­in a hurry to see Dame Rouel.  No—­I’m in no particular hurry.”

“Will you take a turn down to the mill, then, Annot?  Heaven knows when you and I may walk to the old mill again; it may be long enough before I see Echanbroignes again.”

Annot made no answer, but she turned into the little path which led through the fields to the mill.

“I suppose it may,” said she, determined, if possible, that the amende should be made by Jacques and not by herself.

“I see you are indifferent about that,” said Jacques, with a soft and sentimental look, which nearly melted Annot; “well, when you hear of my death, you will sometimes think of me, will you not?”

“Oh, I will, M. Chapeau!  Of course I’ll think of you, and of all my friends.”