“Ah, you do not know him!  He is like the owl, and sleeps only in the daylight.  At other times he watches; he is going the rounds now, and will be with us in a few minutes.  It will need a craftier leader than Anjou to take Saint Jean d’Angely by surprise!  Ah, here is the commandant!”

A veteran soldier, with white moustaches, white hair, and grizzled beard!  A strongly-built man of middle height, with resolute, determined face, and an air that betokened long years of command.

“A despatch from the Admiral, monsieur,” I said, saluting and handing him the packet.

Tearing off the covering, he read the letter by the light of a torch, folded the paper, and put it away carefully.  By his face one could not judge whether the information he had received was good or ill.

“You are from Rochelle?” he asked sharply.

“I have just ridden from there, monsieur.”

“And are you returning?”

“No, monsieur.  I am proceeding to Cognac.”

“You have had a brisk ride, and your horse is in leed of rest.  Come with me.”

He conducted me to an inn, wakened the landlord, and did not leave until my horse was comfortably stabled, and preparations for a good supper were in progress.  Then he said:  “You will be starting early in the morning.  Have a care on your journey to Cognac.  Bodies of the enemy have been prowling around the district for some days.”

“I thank you, monsieur.  I was unaware they had ventured so far south.”

“They are striking, I think, at Angouleme,” he said; “I have sent a courier to Rochelle with the news.  Good-night!  And don’t let the rascals snap you up.”

The supper was an excellent one, the bed delightfully cosy and inviting, and my last thought was one of regret at having to leave it so soon.  However, I turned out at the landlord’s warning, made another hearty meal—­these journeys were keen sharpeners of the appetite—­and before the day was fairly awake had started in cheerful spirits for Cognac.

CHAPTER VIII

The Tragedy of Jarnac

What led to the dismal disaster that overtook us at the very opening of the campaign I cannot say.  Some ascribe it to the rashness of the Prince, who was certainly a very impetuous leader; but it is ill work buffeting the dead, and profitless also.  And if his fiery temper did, indeed, bring about the mischance, he exerted himself as a gallant gentleman to retrieve his error.

By great good fortune, as it appeared afterwards, I had carried my despatch safely to Cognac, and was now, after spending a night in the town, riding along the bank of the Charente in the direction of Angouleme.  I had not encountered any of Anjou’s troopers, though at Cognac it was strongly rumoured they were in the neighbourhood.

The day was cold and somewhat cloudy, the sun shining out only at intervals, and there was a suspicion of rain in the air.  Partly to restore the circulation, and partly to ease my horse—­for we were ascending a hill—­I had dismounted, and was walking briskly along at the animal’s side.