When Santerre rode up to the door of the chateau, ten men might have taken possession of Durbelliere.  It was a fine July evening, about seven o’clock.  The old Marquis had been wheeled in his easy chair out of the house, to the top of the broad steps which led from the back of the chateau into the garden.  Agatha was sitting at his feet on the top step, reading to him, and the little Chevalier Mondyon, who retained no semblance of the soldier about his person, except the red scarf round his waist, was seated straddle-legged atop of one of the huge white lions which guarded the entrance.

“Agatha, I hear horsemen,” said the boy, jumping off his seat.  “There—­there—–­quite plain!”

“It is Henri and Charles coming from Clisson,” said Agatha.

“If it be, they have a troop of cavalry with them,” said the Chevalier.  “Perhaps it’s the Prince de Talmont, for I think they have not so many horsemen with them in the south,” and the little Chevalier ran out to greet, as he thought, his gallant friends.

“Whoever they be, Agatha,” said the old Marquis, “give them a warm welcome if they come in the King’s name.  They will know that I cannot rise to meet them, but make them welcome to everything in and about the chateau.”

Agatha had closed her book, and was rising to execute her father’s wishes, when Momont, the grey-haired butler, hurrying round from the kitchen-door as fast his old legs would carry him, screamed out:  “The blues! the blues!”

Agatha, who was in the act of entering the house as she heard the fearful cry, turned instantly back to her father’s side.  She was deadly pale, but she spoke not a word.  She grasped her father’s hand, and fixed herself close to his chair, determined in that position to await the worst that her enemies could do her.

“Run, Agatha, run,” said the Marquis, “into the garden, my dear love.  The gate will be open at the back.  Run, Agatha, for your life!” Agatha, however, did not stir.

“Do you hear me, Agatha?” continued the old man, wildly supplicating her to go from him.  “Do you hear me, my daughter?  If you would have my blessing before I die, do as I bid you now.  What are my grey hairs to your young life, that you should sacrifice yourself for me?”

It was of no avail, for the daughter stood fast by her disabled father’s side, grasping his right hand so that nothing should tear her from him, and turning her beautiful face towards the house, watching for the approach of her enemies.  Nor had she to watch long; before the Chevalier had been gone five minutes, Santerre, with his sword drawn, tramped heavily through the house, followed by Denot, and a score of his men.  The door from the salon to the garden steps was open, and without waiting a moment in the house, he marched through and confronted Agatha and her father.

“Here is your damsel safe, at any rate, friend Denot,” said Santerre, “and a pretty girl she is too, but a bitter royalist, no doubt, by the proud turn of her white neck.”