"Come, sire," said Chicot, who did not understand this difference between words and gestures, "there is still time; do not commit a folly; you cannot mount on horseback in that state."
"Am I, then, very pale, Chicot?"
"As pale as death, sire."
"Good."
"How good?"
At this moment the noise of cannon and a furious fire of musketry was heard; it was M. de Vezin's reply to the summons to surrender given by Mornay.
"Hem!" said Chicot, "what do you think of this music, sire?"
"It makes me cold in the marrow of my bones," replied Henri. "Here, my horse! my horse!" cried he.
Chicot looked and listened, unable to understand him. Henry mounted, and then said—
"Come, Chicot, get on horseback too; you are not a warrior, either, are you?"