Henri saw his confusion, and, taking it from him, put it on a chair, and then they all shook hands with him.  He first found his hand in that of the Marquis, and heard the old man bless him, and then the Priest blessed him, and then he felt the soft, sweet hands of those bright angels within his own horny palm; he heard them speaking to him, though he knew not what they said; and then he could restrain himself no longer, for tears forced themselves into his eyes, and, in the midst of them all, he cried like a child.

There was infection in his tears, for Agatha and Marie, when they saw them, cried too, and the eyes of some of the men also were not dry; they all knew what the feelings of the man were, and they fully sympathised with him.  It was strange how little they said about St. Florent at first; the moment the men had been seen, they were most anxious for the tidings of what had been done; but now they all seemed satisfied as to the truth of what they had heard—­there was no longer any doubt.  The heroes of St. Florent were there, and, though neither of them had yet spoken a word about the battle which had been fought, the presence of the victors was sufficient evidence of the victory.

The Cure, however, and M. de Lescure soon took Foret apart, and learnt from him the details of what had been done, while the father and son, and the two girls, endeavoured to put the postillion at his ease in his new position.

Cathelineau was a very good-looking man, about thirty-five years of age; his hair was very dark, and curled in short, thick clusters; his whiskers were large and bushy, and met beneath his face; his upper lip was short, his mouth was beautifully formed, and there was a deep dimple on his chin; but the charm of his face was in the soft benignant expression of his eyes; he looked as though he loved his fellow-creatures—­he looked as though he could not hear, unmoved, a tale of woe or oppression—­of injuries inflicted on the weak, or of unfair advantages assumed by the strong.  It was this which had made him so much beloved; and it was not only the expression of his countenance, but of his heart also.

“And were you not wounded, Cathelineau?” asked the old gentleman.

“No, M. le Marquis, thank God!  I was not.”

“Nor Foret?”

“No, M. le Marquis.”

“But were there many wounded?” said Agatha.

“Ah!  Mademoiselle, there were—­many, very many!”

“I knew there must have been,” said Marie, shuddering.

“We cannot have war without the horrors of war,” said Henri.  “It is better, is it not, Cathelineau, that some of us should fall, than that all of us should be slaves?”

“A thousand times, M. Larochejaquelin ten thousand times!” said he, with a return of that determined vigour with which he had addressed his fellow-townsmen the day before.

“Yes, you are right, ten thousand times better! and, Marie, you would not be your brother’s sister if you did not think so,” said Henri; “but you do think so, and so does Agatha, though she cries so fast.”