“Yes, monsieur. The wife and daughter of the Vicomte de la Notte.”
“I thought him at Villeneuve,” said the King.
“Sire, he was with Ribault,” I said, my heart bursting.
Coligny still paused.
“For the love of God, sir, read on,” I exclaimed, forgetting the Presence and everything save that we were there, speaking of the woman I loved—and that she might still be alive.
The King smiled a little.
“You are impatient, monsieur,” he said, not unkindly.
“—Madame and Mademoiselle de la Notte,” continued the Admiral, “who had been upon their guard and had fled to the woods through a lower casement at the first sound of danger. The rain was coming down in torrents, but these women hid themselves in the hollow of an oak tree. Madame de la Notte could go no further, for she was terrified and sick unto death. I threw some bark and brush-wood before the opening to the tree, but heard the sounds of the Spaniards coming and so fled away toward the sea in company with the crossbow-maker, who was weeping and wringing his hands——”
“The coward!” said De Brésac.