“Well,” said Roger, “as it happens, they will seek in vain, and when they do find you, they may be sorry for the discovery.”

Now that my decision was made, I felt anxious to get away, hoping that new scenes and new faces might blunt the misery which L’Estang’s letter had caused me.  Roger was also desirous to return immediately, and, as there was a vessel timed to sail in a few days, he arranged that we should take our passage in her.

It was a beautiful September morning when we went on board, and as the ship moved slowly from the harbour I took a sad farewell of my fair but unhappy country.  Stronger men might have laughed at my weakness, but my eyes were dim as, leaning over the vessel’s side, I watched the receding shore.  Who could foretell if I should ever behold my own land again?

“Courage, monsieur!” whispered Jacques; “we shall return.”

“Yes,” I replied, with a sudden glow of confidence, “we shall return; let us hold fast by that!”

L’ENVOI.

My story as I set out to tell it really ends on the day when the White Rose left the harbour of Rochelle, but those who have followed my fortunes thus far may not take it amiss if I relate very briefly the upshot of my adventures.

Concerning Jeanne and her English husband there is little to tell.  Happy, it is said, is the country that has no history, and their lives were one long happiness, passed in their beautiful home, surrounded by friends, and blessed by the presence of little children.

For four years I stayed with them, until, indeed, the joyful news of Henry’s escape from Paris sent me, accompanied by the faithful Jacques, in hot haste to France, where the offer of my services was gladly accepted by the great Huguenot chief.

“The dawn is long in coming, Le Blanc,” he said kindly; “but it will come at last.”

It would take too long to tell you of the years of strife, of our marches and countermarches, of our defeats and victories, of how we changed from hope to despair, and from despair to hope, until on that memorable field of Ivri we smote our enemies hip and thigh, and broke the League that had brought so much misery on the country.

It was at Ivri, right at the moment of triumph, I lost Jacques, who, through good and ill, had followed my fortunes with a loyalty and devotion that no man ever exceeded, and fell just when I had the power to reward his services.

Renaud L’Estang I rarely met after my return.  He served his patron faithfully and well, and on Anjou’s death joined the household of the Duke of Guise, who held him in high esteem.  He was, I believe, slain in one of the numerous skirmishes, but even that I learned only by hearsay.

In spite of my vaunts and boastings Etienne Cordel enjoyed his ill-gotten gains for several years, and then it was not to me, but to a higher judge he had to render his account.