Of course, we were very eager to hear the story, and, as we sat round the fire that evening, my mother told us the following tale:—
'You know, children, that we have not always lived in England; my ancestors were French, and lived at Château Roquefort, in the province of La Vendée. When the great insurrection broke out in the year 1792, my grandfather, Philippe de Roquefort, was one of the leading insurgents against the Republic. For a time the insurrection was successful, and the Republican generals were driven across the Loire. But at last there came a time when Philippe de Roquefort saw that to resist any longer was hopeless, and, as he had a wife and a little son, he resolved that, for their sakes, it was prudent to flee to England.
'They had abandoned Roquefort itself three days before, but the evening before their leaving France, Philippe was obliged to ride over to the château (five miles or so from the little town where he and his family, with about a dozen trusty followers, had taken refuge) to fetch some important papers.
'The whole neighbourhood swarmed with Republicans, but, with his knowledge of the country, he reached the deserted château safely.
'The whole place had a forsaken air as Philippe entered the hall he knew so well, where all his happy boyhood had been spent; but one familiar object caught his eye—the old clock, which had been too cumbersome to take with them in their flight, and which was still ticking in its accustomed manner. Philippe secured his papers, and was just leaving the château, taking a last fond look at his home, when a heavy hand pulled him backwards, and, before he could reach his sword, he was bound hand and foot.
'"We have caught the bird in his own nest," said a loud voice—and the boisterous laughter of several men made the rafters in the old hall ring.
'Philippe saw that he had been captured by five rough Republicans, who dragged him into the middle of the hall and then sat round him, consulting as to his fate. At last they decided that, at a quarter to six by the old clock, he should be shot. They had some time to wait before going back to their camp.
'Philippe gave himself up for lost. The ruffians soon began to jeer at him, and asked if he had any messages for his friends. Then my grandfather lost all his patience, and throwing aside all prudence, cried: "Yes, you villains, if I had my faithful followers here, they would soon make an end of you."
'The men laughed at this, but suddenly a cruel idea struck one of them.
'"Yes," he said, "Monsieur shall have his way"—and, looking up at the clock, he continued: "It is now five o'clock; Pierre, the peasant's son, who lives yonder, shall ride with a message to these devoted followers. Monsieur shall be shot at a quarter to six; but he can write and tell his friends to be here at ten minutes to the hour; they will come and find Monsieur—five minutes too late. We can get away easily enough before they arrive."