“Rochelle may be as dangerous as any other place,” I remarked, not caring to let them know that Monseigneur was marching on St. Jean d’Angely.  “But here we are at the house; does my aunt still keep her room?”

“Yes,” replied Jeanne with a smile, “though I believe her illness is more fanciful than real.  But she is very good and kind, and we humour her fancies.”

It was very pleasant to be home again; to see the loving looks and to receive the tender caresses of my mother and sister.  They were eager to hear what had happened, and the tears came to their eyes as I described the sufferings of my gallant comrades.  They were brave, too, and instead of being crushed by our defeat looked forward to happier times.

“Perhaps the king will stop the cruel war,” said my mother hopefully, “and let us worship God in peace.  How can he think we wish to harm our beautiful France?  We ask so little; surely he could grant us our modest request.

“I believe he would if it were not for his mother,” I said, “and she is afraid of the Guises.  They are hand in glove with the Pope and the Spaniards.”

“Will Monseigneur try to capture Rochelle?” asked Jeanne.

“It is very likely, but he will not succeed; Rochelle can never be taken by an enemy.”

I stayed very late with them that night, for there were many things to talk about, and they were so glad to see me that even at the end I was loth to depart.

The next day my comrades, who purposely stayed away on the previous evening, accompanied me home, and were made much of by my mother and Jeanne.

These occasional visits were like oases in a dreary desert.  We tried to banish all thoughts of the war, and to talk as cheerfully as if there were no misery in the land.  But for Felix and me these days of happy idleness speedily came to an end.  There was much to be done, and Coligny needed our services.  Instead of being cast down by his reverse at Montcontour, our leader was already planning a gigantic scheme which should help to repair our broken fortunes.

Meanwhile the garrison at St. Jean d’Angely was offering a splendid resistance to the enemy.  Anjou was pressing the siege with vigour, King Charles himself was in the trenches—­I never held, as some of my comrades did, that the king was a coward—­but the handful of troops defied the royal brothers and all their force.

One morning as our chief came from his chamber, the ante-room being filled with his gentlemen and the leaders of the army, he stopped and laid his hand with a kindly touch on my shoulder.

“My young friend,” he said, “we are all proud of your father.  The reports from St. Jean d’Angely declare that he is the very heart of the defence.”

“I thank you, my lord, for your kind words,” I stammered, blushing crimson with pride, for to hear my father thus honoured was far sweeter than any praise of myself could have been.