“Oh!” cried M. de Turenne, “the siege of the city is over, Vezin.”  And as he spoke he fired at him and wounded him in the arm.

“You are wrong, Turenne,” cried M. de Vezin, “there are twenty sieges in Cahors; so if one is over, there are nineteen to come.”

M. de Vezin defended himself during five days and nights from street to street and from house to house.  Luckily for the rising fortunes of Henri of Navarre, he had counted too much on the walls and garrison of Cahors, and had neglected to send to M. de Biron.

During these five days and nights, Henri commanded like a captain and fought like a soldier, slept with his head on a stone, and awoke sword in hand.  Each day they conquered a street or a square, which each night the garrison tried to retake.  On the fourth night the enemy seemed willing to give some rest to the Protestant army.  Then it was Henri who attacked in his turn.  He forced an intrenched position, but it cost him seven hundred men.  M. de Turenne and nearly all the officers were wounded, but the king remained untouched.  To the fear that he had felt at first, and which he had so heroically vanquished, succeeded a feverish restlessness, a rash audacity.  All the fastenings of his armor were broken, as much by his own efforts as by the blows of the enemy.  He struck so vigorously that he always killed his man.  When this last post was forced, the king entered into the inclosure, followed by the eternal Chicot, who, silent and sad, had for five days seen growing at his sides the phantom of a monarchy destined to destroy that of the Valois.

“Well, Chicot, of what are you thinking?” said Henri to him.

“Sire, that you are a real king.”

“And I, sire, that you are too imprudent,” said Mornay, “to put up your vizor when they are firing at you from all sides.”

As he spoke a dozen arquebuses were fired at them; one ball struck off a plume from Henri’s helmet, his horse was killed by another, and Mornay’s had his leg broken.  The king fell, and there might have finished his career; but Chicot, whirling his sword round to keep off the nearest, helped Henri up and gave him his own horse, saying, “Sire, you will testify to the king of France that, if I drew the sword against him, I killed no one.”—­“Ventre St. Gris! you must be mine, Chicot!” cried Henri.  “You shall live and die with me.”

“Sire, I have but one service to follow—­that of my king.  His star diminishes, but I shall be faithful to his adverse fortunes.  Let me serve and love him as long as I live, sire.  I shall soon be alone with him; do not envy him his last servant.”

“Chicot, you will be always dear to me, and, after Henri of France, you will have Henri of Navarre for a friend.”

“Yes, sire,” said Chicot simple, kissing his hand.

The siege was soon over after this.  M. de Vezin was taken, and the garrison surrendered.

Then Henri dictated to Mornay a letter, which Chicot was to carry to the king of France.  It was written in bad Latin, and finished with these words: