“Oh, as to remaining in the camp, that is out of the question.  I can’t stay there; when I hear a musket-shot, I should be ill did I not see the flash.  As for my business, that is to take care of your horses, and you are on them.  Monsieur, think you I should not have saved, had I been able, the life of the poor black horse down there in the trench?  Ah, how I loved him!—­a horse that gained three races in his time—­a time too short for those who loved him as I loved him!  He never would take his corn but from his dear Grandchamp; and then he would caress me with his head.  The end of my left ear that he carried away one day—­poor fellow!—­proves it, for it was not out of ill-will he bit it off; quite the contrary.  You should have heard how he neighed with rage when any one else came near him; that was the reason why he broke Jean’s leg.  Good creature, I loved him so!

“When he fell I held him on one side with one hand and M. de Locmaria with the other.  I thought at first that both he and that gentleman would recover; but unhappily only one of them returned to life, and that was he whom I least knew.  You seem to be laughing at what I say about your horse, Monsieur; you forget that in times of war the horse is the soul of the cavalier.  Yes, Monsieur, his soul; for what is it that intimidates the infantry?  It is the horse!  It certainly is not the man, who, once seated, is little more than a bundle of hay.  Who is it that performs the fine deeds that men admire?  The horse.  There are times when his master, who a moment before would rather have been far away, finds himself victorious and rewarded for his horse’s valor, while the poor beast gets nothing but blows.  Who is it gains the prize in the race?  The horse, that sups hardly better than usual, while the master pockets the gold, and is envied by his friends and admired by all the lords as if he had run himself.  Who is it that hunts the roebuck, yet puts but a morsel in his own mouth?  Again, the horse; sometimes the horse is even eaten himself, poor animal!  I remember in a campaign with Monsieur le Marechal, it happened that—­But what is the matter, Monsieur, you grow pale?”

“Bind up my leg with something—­a handkerchief, a strap, or what you will.  I feel a burning pain there; I know not what.”

“Your boot is cut, Monsieur.  It may be some ball; however, lead is the friend of man.”

“It is no friend of mine, at all events.”

“Ah, who loves, chastens!  Lead must not be ill spoken of!  What is that—­”

While occupied in binding his master’s leg below the knee, the worthy Grandchamp was about to hold forth in praise of lead as absurdly as he had in praise of the horse, when he was forced, as well as Cinq-Mars, to hear a warm and clamorous dispute among some Swiss soldiers who had remained behind the other troops.  They were talking with much gesticulation, and seemed busied with two men among a group of about thirty soldiers.