“My friend, remember that dreams are the impressions of the previous day, and have no influence on the morrow.”
“Yes, sire,” said D’Epernon, “I also had bad dreams last night; but, in spite of that, my hand is steady and fit for action.”
“Yes,” said Chicot, “you dreamed you had blood on your boots; that is not a bad dream, for it signifies that you will be a conqueror, like Alexander or Cæsar.”
“My friends,” said Henri, “remember you fight only for honor; the past night has seated me firmly on my throne, therefore do not think of me; and, above all things, no false bravery; you wish to kill your enemies, not to die yourselves.”
The gentlemen were now ready, and it only remained to take leave of their master.
“Do you go on horseback?” asked he.
“No, sire, on foot.”
They each kissed his hand, and D’Epernon said, “Sire, bless my sword.”
“Not so, D’Epernon; give up your sword—I have a better one for each of you. Chicot, bring them here.”
“No, sire, send your captain of the guards; I am but a Pagan, and they might lose their virtue by coming through my hands.”