"Ay, but you know not how she may have told it," answered Rose d'Albret. "Oh, she is false and deceitful, Helen, and may have cast the whole blame and shame on you, when in truth, yours is but the lighter share. See him, dear Helen, see him, and let him know the whole. Shrink not from his reproaches; hear them with patience and humility; but let him know the plain truth, just as you have told it me; and he will forgive you, I am sure. Hark! there are the cannon again. Oh Good, protect him!--Helen, I will go and pray."
"May I pray with you?" asked Helen de la Tremblade timidly.
"Come," said Rose taking her by the hand, "come let us raise our voice to Him from whom all need, and all are sure to receive, forgiveness and mercy if they seek it."
An hour passed by in anxious expectation. Oh, how long an hour may be to those who watch, to those who with the faint sickening of the heart, know that upon its events may hang the long misery of a hopeless, cheerless, loveless life! It seemed as if it would never go; and every device they used to make it speed the faster, seemed like the ticking of a clock, marking the slowness of time's progress, not accelerating its flight. Now they spoke of things past, hoping to lose in retrospection, the sense of things present; now they talked of the future, the wide indefinite blank, which to all men is a chasm that the eye searches in vain. But still to the present, the overburdened present, their minds and their words returned whether they would or not. To the quick imagination of Rose d'Albret, all the horrors of the battle-field presented themselves in more than even their real terrors. She pictured the dead, the dying, and the wounded; the fierce contention, the sanguinary triumph, the unsparing cruelty, loss, flight, defeat; and though she laboured zealously with her own mind to lead it to other themes, yet it was all in vain. She might speak of anything, of everything but the battle, yet still her thoughts wandered back to that overwhelming image, which, like some vaster mountain in a hilly country, was ever seen towering over all the rest, and presenting itself to contemplation, whenever the eyes were turned from other objects.
Sometimes she would strive to speak calmly with Helen de la Tremblade, upon what should be the poor girl's future conduct. Sometimes she would inquire gently and tenderly into the past. But ever her mind would come back again to the battle, and she would give way to all the apprehension and anxiety she felt; would ask how the time went; would call the good farmer, and demand intelligence; would send out one of the attendants, to bring her any news that he could gather.
Half an hour more flew slowly away, and De Montigni did not return; but then, quick spurring down the road, as if for life, came a small party of horse. The farmer, who was upon the watch, suddenly closed and barred the doors, and Rose saw from the window that, over their dusty armour, they wore scarfs of green, a sign that they belonged to the faction of the League. The worthy countryman called her and her companion quickly from the lower story, put up the strong oaken shutters, and bade them, if they needs must gaze, look from the rooms above. But the cavaliers paused not even to notice the house as they passed, and, hurrying on, plunged their horses into the stream, and gained the other side.
"Surely the King has won the day?" said Rose; turning to the farmer, "the Leaguers fly. Is it not so?"
"I know not, Mademoiselle," replied the peasant. "It often happens in strifes like these that men run away before the battle is lost or won. Their own corps may be defeated; but there may come many more to turn the fight."
Even while he spoke a single horseman, with a scarf of white, rode down more slowly on a wounded horse, looked up to the window, where they stood, and cried aloud, "the King is killed," passing on without further pause.
The heart of Rose d'Albret sank as she caught his words; but she grew fainter still when she beheld upon the road, a party of four, one on foot, leading a horse, on which sat a wounded man, with two others supporting him. For an instant she fancied--for the imagination of fear is as vivid and as false as that of hope,--that she recognized the figure of De Montigni. The next moment, however, she saw that it was an older and a heavier man, clothed in armour, and with the visor of his casque closed; but with the white signal of the Bourbon party thrown over his shoulder.