They were within a league of Durbelliere, and had reached a point where a cross-road led from the one they were on to the village of Echanbroignes, and at this place many of the cortege, which was now pretty numerous, turned off towards their own homes.

“M.  Henri,” said Chapeau, riding up to his master, from among two or three peasants, who had been walking for some time by hi horse’s side, and anxiously talking to him, “M.  Henri?”

“Well, Jacques; what is it now?” said Henri.

“I have a favour to ask of Monsieur.”

“A favour, Chapeau; I suppose you want to go to Echanbroignes already, to tell Michael Stein’s pretty daughter, of all the gallant things you did at Saumur.”

“Not till I have waited on you and M. de Lescure to the chateau.  Momont would be dying if he had not some one to give him a true account of what has been done, and I do not know that any one could give him a much better history of it, than myself—­of course not meaning such as you and M. de Lescure, who saw more of the fighting than any one else; but then you know, M. Henri, you will have too much to do, and too much to say to the Marquis, and to Mademoiselle, to be talking to an old man like Momont.”

“Never fear, Chapeau.  You shall have Momont’s ears all to yourself; but what is it you do want?”

“Why, nothing myself exactly, M. Henri; but there are two men from Echanbroignes here, who wish you to allow them to go on to Durbelliere, and stay a day or two there:  they are two of our men, M. Henri; two of the red scarfs.”

“Two of the red scarfs!” said Henri.

“Yes, M. Henri, two of the men who went through the water, and took the town; we call ourselves red scarfs, just to distinguish ourselves from the rest of the army:  your honour is a red scarf that is the chief of the red scarfs; and we expect to be especially under your honour’s protection.”

“I am a red scarf, Henri;” said the little Chevalier.  “There are just two hundred of us, and we mean to be the most dare-devil set in the whole army; won’t we make the cowardly blues afraid of the Durbelliere red scarfs!”

“And who are the two men, Jacques?” said Henri.

“Jean and Peter Stein,” said Jacques:  “you see, M. Henri, they ran away to the battle, just in direct opposition to old Michael’s positive orders.  You and the Cure must remember how I pledged my honour that they should be at Saumur, and so they were:  but Michael Stein is an awful black man to deal with when his back is up:  he thinks no more of giving a clout with his hammer, than another man does of a rap with his five knuckles.”

“But his sons are brave fellows,” said the little Chevalier, “and dashed into the water among the very first.  Michael Stein can’t but be proud that his two sons should be both red scarfs:  if so, he must be a republican.”