"My good Martha alarms herself unnecessarily," observed the armorer after reading his wife's letter. "However violent the persecution of the reformers may be, and although a heretic myself, I have nothing to fear. I work for several seigneurs of the court; I have fashioned their finest arms; they will not refuse me their protection."
"Master Raimbaud, do the papist court jays, with the feathers of peacocks and the talons of vultures, owe you any money?"
"Indeed, they owe me large sums."
"They will burn you to cancel their debts. Make no doubt of that."
"God's head! You may be telling the truth, Josephin! I must consider that."
"Well, then, return secretly to Paris; remain in hiding a few days, gather all your valuables—and flee to La Rochelle. Place yourself beyond the reach of the tigers' claws. It is the best thing you can do."
"But what of the poor lad—Odelin?"
"My nephew and myself will accompany you to La Rochelle. I scent battle and carnage in that quarter. When I say 'battle' I see things red. Here is to the red! I love wine—I shall drink blood! Oh, blood! You shall flow streaming and warm from the breast of the papists, like wine from the bung-hole of a cask. By my sister's death! Oh, for the day when I shall avenge Bridget—Hena—my two poor martyrs!"
After a moment's silent reflection the armorer blurted out: "My head reels under so many afflictions. I forgot to ask you where is Christian's daughter, Hena?"
"She is a prisoner at the Chatelet. Her trial is on," and burying his face in his hands the soldier of adventure added in heartrending tones: "She will be pronounced guilty, sentenced, and brought to the stake—burned alive as a relapsed nun."