“And killed him instantly?”

“He just had strength to say, ‘Now I trust you are content!’” replied the trooper, “and then he fell forward dead.  They wrapped his body in a sheet and carried it off the field, but I do not know where.”

“There is no possible chance of your having been mistaken?”

“None, my lord.”

The chaplain, stepping forward, led the trooper from the tent to give him some food, and to bind up his wounds, while every one began discussing the mournful story he had told.  In the midst of the talk I slipped out, eager to assure Felix of my safety, and to learn if Roger Braund had returned.

No one in the camp thought of sleep or rest; the soldiers had gathered together in knots, asking and answering questions, while from time to time a single horseman, or half a dozen in a body, trailed wearily into the lines.  I met Felix coming toward the tent, and on seeing me he ran forward hastily.

“Is it really you, Edmond?” he cried; “are you hurt?  How came you to be in the fight?  One of the Englishmen told me you were there.  ’Tis a sorry beginning to the campaign, eh?  But, after all, ’tis but one dark spot on the sun.  Come to our tent and tell us what has happened.  There are a thousand rumours.”

“Is Roger Braund not with his comrades?” I asked.

“No; there are a good many of the English still missing, but their friends are not anxious; they have lost their way perhaps, and we shall see them in the morning.”

As nothing could be done, I accompanied Felix to the tent, where a number of our comrades speedily assembled.  Felix gave me food, as I had eaten nothing for hours, and then I related my story.

“On the plain of Jarnac!” exclaimed one in surprise; “what was the Prince doing there?”

“I cannot say.  Remember, I came upon them by mere chance.”

“’Twas stupid folly!” exclaimed the speaker.  “We aren’t so strong that we can afford to divide our forces.  Conde’s rashness will ruin everything.  One would think he was a hot-headed boy!”

“If Conde was in fault, he has paid dearly for his mistake,” I remarked, and was greeted by cries of “What do you mean?” “Is the Prince hurt?” “Is he a prisoner?” “Speak out, Le Blanc!”

“The Prince, gentlemen,” I replied slowly, “is dead; and if my account be true, most foully murdered.”

“Conde dead!” cried one, “no, no; there must be some strange mistake!”

“I fear not, monsieur!” and, while they listened in breathless silence, I repeated the story which the wounded trooper had brought from the battle-field.

“Anjou shall have cause to rue this day!” said one, speaking with deadly earnestness.  “If I meet him on foot or in the saddle, in victory or in defeat, I will not leave the ground till I have plunged my sword into his heart!”

“But Anjou was not the murderer!”

“An officer of his bodyguard, you said.  Do you think he acted against his master’s wishes?  Pshaw!  I tell you, Monseigneur is as much the murderer as if his own fingers had pulled the trigger!” and the murmur of applause from all who heard showed how fully they agreed with him.