Again one or two of the older men shrug their shoulders.
'I saw him fall from the ramparts,' asserts one.
'He was struck full in the breast by an arrow,' says another, 'shot by an unseen hand—some abominable assassin. His Highness gave one turn and fell into the moat below.'
'And was immediately found and picked up by some of my men,' retorts de Balagny hotly. 'Mine oath on it! Our spies have seen him—spoken with him. The Duc d'Anjou is alive and on his way to Cambray. I'd stake on it the salvation of my soul!'
The others sigh, some of them dubiously, others with renewed hope. From their talk we gather that not one of them has any doubt in his mind as to the identity of the brave defender of Cambray. Nothing had in truth happened to shake their faith in him, and de Balagny had said nothing to shake that faith. On that fateful day in April they had been convened to witness the betrothal of Madame Jacqueline de Broyart to Monsieur Duc d'Anjou, had been presented to His Highness and kissed his hands. Then suddenly all had been confusion—the panic, the surprise attack, the runaway soldiers, and finally the one man who rallied every quaking spirit and defended the city with heart and mind, with counsel and strength of arm, until he fell by an unseen assassin's hand: he, the Duc d'Anjou, of the princely House of France—the future Sovereign Lord of a United Netherlands.
For awhile there is absolute stillness in the Council room. No one speaks; hardly does any one stir. Only the massive clock over the monumental hearth ticks out every succeeding second with relentless monotony. Monseigneur is buried in thought. The others wait, respectfully silent. Then suddenly d'Inchy looks up and gazes determinedly on the faces round him.
'Madame Jacqueline must help us,' he says firmly.
'Madame Jacqueline?' the Chief Magistrate exclaims. 'How?'
'On the Place d'Armes—one evening—during the intercession,' Monseigneur goes on, speaking rapidly and with unhesitating resolve. 'She will make a solemn declaration before the assembled people—plight her troth to the Duc d'Anjou, who, though still absent, has sent her a token of his immediate arrival.'
'Sent her a token?' most of them murmur, astonished. And even de Balagny frowns in puzzlement.