must ride
away in the morning and leave them to their grief! Read it to me slowly,
dear friend, while I try to think."

CHAPTER XIII

A Daring Enterprise

After the lapse of many years, I close my eyes, and leaning back in my
chair listen again to my comrade as with tremulous voice he reads the
fatal letter.--"Monsieur, you once did me a priceless service. I have
never forgotten--shall never forget. Believe me, monsieur, it is with
poignant grief I write this brief note. I have been with Monseigneur at
St. Jean d'Angely throughout the siege. Your father was the bravest man
among our enemies. His wonderful skill and courage have gained the
admiration of friend and foe alike. The king spoke of his bravery with
the highest praise: Monseigneur has declared openly that the Sieur Le
Blanc alone stood between him and the capture of the town. He has indeed
proved himself one of the finest soldiers in France; but, alas!
monsieur, the Sieur Le Blanc is no more. He fell not an hour ago at the
head of his men, in a brilliant sortie. Remembering your kindness to me,
my heart bleeds for you. I write this with the deepest sorrow, but it
may be less painful for you to learn of your loss in this way than to be
tortured by a rumour, the truth of which you cannot prove. Accept my
heartfelt sympathy."

"My father is dead, Felix," I said in a dazed manner.

"He fought a good fight," replied my comrade. "His memory will live in
the hearts of our people."

This might be true, but the knowledge did little to soften my grief. And
I was thinking not of my father alone--after all he had died a hero's
death--but of my mother and sister. How could I tell them this mournful
news? How could I comfort them?

"Felix," I said, "we are going away to-morrow."

"You must stay here," he said firmly, "at least for a few days. I will
inform our patron; he is not likely to leave Saintes for a week. Shall I
come home with you, or do you prefer to be alone?"

"I will go alone, Felix; it will be better for them. I will join you at
Saintes. Good-bye, dear friend."

"Tell your mother and sister how deeply I sympathize with them," he
said. "I would come with you, but, as you say, perhaps it is better
not."

"I think they will prefer to be alone," I answered, grasping his hand in
farewell.

I went out into the deserted street, walking unsteadily, and hardly
conscious of anything beyond my one absorbing sorrow. I reached the
house at last, and