They were simple words, simply spoken, but they went straight to our hearts, amply repaying us for the risks attendant on our night’s adventure.

Marching slowly, and halting two or three times during the day, as the general wished to husband his men’s strength, we arrived early in the evening at a little stream near Arnay-le-Duc, and beheld, on the other side, two or three thousand of the royalist cavalry.  There were no guns in sight, and the infantry had been drawn up at some distance in the background.

The troops took their supper—­a very meagre one, too; our provisions being at a low ebb—­sentries were posted, and Coligny made all arrangements for battle, in case the enemy should attack before morning.

“There is Roger coming towards us!” I exclaimed, as we lay wrapped in our cloaks on the ground.

“He has come to discover if we are still alive!” said my comrade.

“You are wrong,” laughed the Englishman, dropping down beside us; “Jacques told me he had kept you from coming to grief.  I congratulate you on having such a servant.  But, seriously, I am glad to see you back; the errand was rather venturesome for such young persons,” and he laughed again in his rich, musical voice.

“Go away,” said Felix, “before I am tempted to chastise you.  It would be a pity to lose your services for to-morrow!”

“It would,” agreed our friend.  “By the look of things, Coligny will need all the swords he can muster.  Did you find out anything about the enemy’s strength?”

We gave him the figures, and he remarked:  “The odds are heavy enough in all conscience, seeing that we count barely six thousand men.  Still, they are picked troops.”

“And they have their backs against the wall,” I observed.  “There was a chance of escape at Montcontour, but there is none here.  If we are defeated we shall be cut to pieces.”

“You are entertaining, you two!” interposed Felix.  “Can we not have a change?  Let me arrange the programme.  First, we rout Cosse—­an easy matter; second, we continue our march to Paris, defeating Monseigneur on the way; third, we dictate terms of peace at the Louvre.”

“And fourth,” laughed Roger, “we appoint Monsieur Felix Bellievre Marshal of France, and advance him to the highest dignity!”

“The suggestion does you credit,” replied my comrade, good-humouredly; “and we will make a beginning in the morning by beating Cosse.”

Knowing that we had lost our sleep the previous night, Roger did not stay long, and as soon as our attendance on the Admiral was over we went to bed, or rather lay down inside the tent, muffled in our cloaks.

The morning of June 27, 1570, opened bright and clear, and we looked forward with hope, if not exactly with confidence, to the approaching battle.  The enemy were nearly three to one, but, as Roger had said, our men were all picked troops, hardy, resolute fellows, filled with intense zeal, and fighting for what they believed to be right.