Most of the burghers look gravely puzzled. Their spokesman ventures on the remark:
'To His Highness the Duc d'Anjou, surely!'
The Master of the Camp shrugs his shoulders.
'That is as it may be,' he says dryly. 'But you might all have rotted inside your walls but for the valour of Monseigneur de Froidmont.'
'But the Duc d'Anjou...' hazards some one timidly.
'A murrain on the Duc d'Anjou!' breaks in the Master of the Camp good-humouredly. ''Tis of the defender of your city you should think at this hour. Ah!' he exclaims, with a sigh of satisfaction, ''tis good to hear that your city fathers at the least are giving him a rousing welcome!'
He himself sets up a cheer, which is taken up by his soldiers; for just then the bells of Notre Dame have begun their joyous peal. Soon Ste. Croix follows suit and St. Géry from the heights toward the north. Peal after peal resounds, till the whole air vibrates with that most inspiriting sound, chasing away with its melody the very shadow of silence and desolation.
The last rays of the sun have now sunk in the west. Twilight is slowly fading into dusk. Out beyond Cantimpré, the herald upon his charger has halted at the foot of the bridge, the white banner of France, gay with its golden Fleur de Lys, is gently stirred by the evening breeze. The group of cavaliers has halted too, while the defender of Cambray rides slowly into the city.
IV
Monseigneur the governor awaited the victor in the courtyard of the citadel. He stood in the midst of his Sheriffs and his Provosts and the other dignitaries of the city, all of them still dignified and imposing, despite the faded appearance of their clothes and the gaunt, hungry look in their wan faces. All around the courtyard was lined with troops, the mere remnants of the garrison who had fought so valorously on that never-to-be-forgotten day in April, a little over four months ago, and of the small body of French troops who had come to their assistance then.