This flag they fixed on a pole erected in the centre of the green, and then they set to work to amuse themselves with twenty different games.  The games, however, did not flourish—­the men were too eager to talk of what they had done, and the girls were too willing to listen—­they divided themselves into fifty little parties, in which fifty different accounts were given of the taking of Saumur, and in each party three or four different warriors were named as having been the most conspicuous heroes of the siege.  Each narrator had some especially esteemed leader or chief, who in his eyes greatly exceeded the other leaders, and the prodigious feats of valour performed by this favoured warrior was the first and most wonderful subject of discourse.  Then, but at a modest distance, as regards the glory of the achievements related, each peasant told what he had done himself; two or three probably made out their little history together, and told of each other’s valour:  that homely and somewhat vulgar Scotch proverb, “you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours,” was certainly unknown to them, but nevertheless they fully recognized the wise principle of mutual accommodation which that proverb teaches.

“It’s no use talking, but there isn’t one of them able to hold a candle to our M. Henri—­is there, Louis? that is, for a downright thundering attack.”

This was said by Jean Stein to two or three of the village girls, by whom he was looked on as a great hero, in consequence of his having gone to the war in spite of his father’s commands, as well as on account of Chapeau’s honourable testimony in his favour; and the man referred to, was one Louis Bourdin, who, as well as Jean, had been of the party who followed Henri through the moat.

“That there is not, Jean; that is, for positive standup fighting; not one.  And we ought to know, for we have seen most of ’em.  There’s Cathelineau is a very good man at leading on the men.”

“Oh, yes I” said Jean, “Cathelineau is a fine fellow too, and a very holy man; but somehow I don’t think he’s quite so forward as M. Henri.  M. Henri is always the first.”

“But doesn’t he get dreadfully knocked about by the guns and bullets?” asked one of the girls.

“He doesn’t matter that a pinch of snuff,” said Louis.

“No, not a pinch of snuff,” said Jean.  “Do you mind, Louis, how he leapt off his horse, and dashed through the trenches, that first night at Varin? wasn’t it beautiful?”

“You may say that, Jean,” answered Louis; “it was beautiful.  And what a night that was—­you were along with him, Jean, and so was Chapeau.  M. Henri was up first, I can swear to that; but it would puzzle any one to say who was second.”

“Yourself Louis, was as quick as any one—­I marked you well.  Indeed then, said I to myself, if all our men are as forward as Louis Bourdin, the village will have a great name before the war is over.”

“But tell me truly now, Louis Bourdin,” said a little girl, who was listening intently all the time, “when you went up into that place, were there real soldiers in armour, with guns and cannon firing at you all the time?”