Perhaps my face betrayed the miserable truth; perhaps some chord of sympathy passed from me to them—­I know not.  They jumped up and came forward with a sudden fear in their eyes.  I had already bidden them farewell, and they did not expect to see me again, until I rode from the city in the morning.

My mother gazed at me earnestly, but said nothing; Jeanne cried impulsively, “What is it, Edmond?  There is bad news!  Oh, Edmond, is it about our father?”

“You must be brave,” I said gently, taking a hand of each, “very brave.  Yes, I have received bad news from St. Jean d’Angely.  There has been a fierce fight; our father headed a sortie, and has been seriously hurt.  He was the bravest man there, every one says so from the king downwards.  Even his enemies praise him.”

“Edmond,” said my mother quietly, “we are strong enough to bear the truth—­is your father dead?”

Words were not needed to answer that question; the answer was plain in my face, and those two dear ones understood.  Oh, it was pitiful to see their white faces, and the misery in their eyes!  And yet I could feel a pride, too, in their wonderful bravery.  They wept silently in each; other’s arms, and presently my mother said softly, “It is God’s will; let us pray to Him for strength to bear our loss.”

I stayed with them for four days, being I believe of some comfort in that sorrowful time, and then my mother herself suggested that I should return to my duty.

“You belong to the Cause, my son,” she said, “and not to us.  It is a heavy trial to let you go, but your father would have wished it.  Perhaps the good God, in His mercy, may guard you through all dangers, and we may meet again.  But, if not, we are in’ His hands.  Tell Felix we thank him for his kind message.”

“Roger, too, will grieve for our loss,” I said.  “He admired my father greatly.”

The Englishmen had accompanied the Admiral, so that Roger had left Rochelle when the news arrived.

Early on the morning fixed for my departure I wished my mother and sister good-bye, and returned to the hotel.  Coligny was still at Saintes, and I waited for a letter that the commandant had requested me to deliver to him.  I had gone into the courtyard to see about my horse when a man, riding in, exclaimed, “Oh, I am in time, monsieur; I feared you had gone.”

“Jacques!” I cried with delight, “surely you have taken a long while to travel from Montcontour to Rochelle!  And yet you have a good beast!”

“As good an animal as ever carried saddle!” said Jacques, eyeing his horse complacently; “but then I have not owned it long.”

“Have you been to the house?”

“Yes, monsieur,” and his face became grave, “it was madame who told me where to find you.  She said you were about to rejoin the army.”

He did not speak of my loss, though it was plain he had heard the news, and indeed several days passed before the subject was mentioned between us.  Jacques had been brought up in my father’s service, and he was unwilling to talk about the death of his loved master.