"Do so! do so!" answered the other; "and now I think of it, I had better go on to the fort, and put the Chevelier's intentions in execution. For this firing upon you may be considered already a breach of the truce. I shall find you on my return; and at the little auberge you will meet with an English gentleman most anxious to speak with you." Thus saying, he turned again towards the fort, and the Count, with a sad heart, rode back to the village.
CHAPTER XIV.
[THE BITTER PARTING.]
Just at the entrance of the village, the Count met with his companion Du Bar.
"Have you heard all?" demanded that officer. "What is to be done?"
"Get the boats ready with all speed," replied the Count. "The tide will turn within half an hour, the ships will be able to come farther in. Twenty or thirty persons may get off in the first boats, which must come back again for a second freight. I see clearly, my friend, that there is no intention of dealing harshly with us. All the officers wish us to escape, and there will be no more firing from the castle. I must leave the embarkation, and all that, to you, Du Bar, for I have things to go through that will try my heart to the utmost. I must have a few minutes to make up my mind to parting with my friends and companions, and all that I love on earth, forever.--Du Bar," he continued, while the other wrung his hand affectionately, "there will be a young lady who will accompany you, and that girl, the daughter of poor Virlay. You have a wife and children yourself, whom you love, I know, fondly and devotedly. They are in safety, you told me, on those opposite shores which I shall never see. But let me beseech you,--by the memory of these dark and terrible days, when the hand that now presses yours is laid in the dust, as I know too well must soon be the case,--let me beseech you, I say, to give every aid and assistance to those two that I now commit to your charge. Be to the one as a brother, Du Bar, and to the other as a father. I know you to be honest and true as you are brave and wise; and I shall lay my head upon the block with more peace at my heart, if you promise me that which I now ask."
"I do, I do," replied the Marquis, with the tears standing in his eyes. "I do promise you, from my heart, and I would fain persuade you even now to consider----"
But the Count waved his hand and rode on.
There was a considerable crowd round the entrance of the little inn, and he had some difficulty in making his way in. At the door of the room where he had fixed his own quarters, he found two or three of the royalist soldiers; but, passing by them, he entered the room, when a sight met his eye which might well chill and wring his heart.
The room was nearly empty, but stretched upon the long table, which occupied the midst, was the fine noble form of the Chevalier d'Evran, now still in death. Standing near the head of the body, was the old English officer, Sir Thomas Cecil, with an air of deep stern grief upon his fine and striking countenance. His hat was off, showing his white hair, his arms were crossed upon his chest, his head was erect as ever, and nothing like a tear was in his eye: but there was no mistaking the expression of his countenance. It was that of intense sorrow. But on the other side of the table grief was displaying itself in a different manner, and in a different form. For there knelt Clémence de Marly, with her beautiful head bent down over the dead body; her hair, fallen from its bindings, scattered wildly, partly over her own shoulders, partly over the breast of the Chevalier; her left hand clasping that of the dead man, her eyes and face buried on his bosom, while the convulsing sobs that shook her whole frame, told how bitterly she was weeping.