Two hours had not passed after the sun's rising above the horizon when Edward Langdale stood with a small group of officers at the extreme outpost of the royal army, before what was called the Niort gate of the city of Rochelle. There was still a space of about five hundred yards between him and the walls; and before him rose all those towers and pinnacles, many of which have since been destroyed, but which rendered then and still render Rochelle one of the most picturesque cities of France when seen from a distance. During the whole siege the operations, though sure and terrible, had been slow and apparently tardy. The Rochellois had been glad to husband their powder; and it was no part of Richelieu's plan to breach the walls or to do more than harass the citizens by an occasional attack. On this morning there had been no firing on either side, and the town looked as quiet and peaceable as if there were no hostile force before it. But, as Edward Langdale and his companion, a young officer of the cardinal's guard, had ridden down from MauzÉ, the latter had pointed out to the young Englishman that famous dyke which, stretching across the mouth of the port, had gradually cut off the city from all communication with friends at home or allies abroad. He had, in a jesting way, too, put some questions to Edward in regard to the objects of his journey; but he obtained no information, and did not dare to press them closely.

"You had better take some more breakfast, sir," said an old officer commanding at the advance-posts. "You will get none in there; and, though we are forbidden to suffer the slightest morsel to go in, I presume that does not apply to what a man can carry in his stomach."

"I shall soon be back again if they let me in at all," answered Edward. "Can any one give me a white flag? for I may as well not draw the fire. That is a sort of breakfast I have no inclination for."

A small white flag was soon procured, and, leaving his horse with Pierrot and BeauprÉ, who had followed him down the hill, Edward set out on foot. He carried the white flag in his hand and approached the gate with a calm, steady pace. He saw some men walk quickly along the wall toward the same point to which his own course was directed; but the flag of truce was respected, and he was permitted to come within five or six yards of the heavy gate. Then, however, a voice shouted from behind a small grated wicket, "Stand back! What seek you here?"

"I seek to speak with the syndic Clement Tournon," said Edward; "and, if not with him, with Monsieur Guiton, mayor of the city."

"Stand back! You cannot enter here," said the man on the other side.

"Will you cause the mayor to be informed," said Edward, "that Master Edward Langdale, an English gentleman well known in Rochelle, stands without and desires admittance, if it be but for an hour?"

The man grumbled something which Edward did not hear, and there seemed to be a consultation held within, at the end of which the same voice told him to keep on the other side of the drawbridge while they informed the mayor. The young gentleman accordingly retired, and seated himself on a large stone at the end of the bridge, where for nearly an hour he had nothing to occupy him but his own thoughts, with every now and then a puff of smoke from one of the royalist batteries, which had lately begun firing, and one gun replying from the walls. It seemed all child's play, however; and he soon ceased to think of the matter at all. His mind then turned to his own position and the curious fact of Richelieu having suffered him to visit Rochelle with so very little opposition. He could not but ask himself how much the gold cup had to do with the minister's acquiescence; but, as he reflected more deeply upon the cardinal's character and upon various incidents which had come to his knowledge, he concluded in his own mind that Richelieu might be well pleased to make another effort to open a communication with the citizens without compromising his own dignity. The position of the besieging force, he thought, might not be so good as it appeared. The dyke, on which so much depended, and which he had had no means of examining closely, might not be sufficiently solid to resist the action of the sea and winds. The English armament might be, to Richelieu's knowledge, of a more formidable character and more advanced state of preparation than was admitted; and all these circumstances might render the speedy capture of Rochelle upon any terms absolutely necessary.

In little more than an hour, the same voice he had heard before called him up to the gate, and the wicket was partly opened to give him admittance under the archway, where he found five or six men with halberds on their shoulders and otherwise well armed, while a young man bearing the appearance of an officer advanced to meet him. The steel caps of the soldiers in some degree concealed their faces; but the broad-brimmed, plumed hat of the young officer served in no degree to hide the gaunt, pallid features, the high cheek-bones, the fallen-in cheeks, the hollow eyes, and the strong marking of the temples, which told a sad tale of the ravages of famine, even amongst the higher and more wealthy classes of the town. A feeling of delicacy made Edward withdraw his eyes after one hasty glance at the young gentleman's countenance; and, as the other paused without speaking for a moment, he said, "May I ask, sir, if any one has conveyed my message to the syndic Clement Tournon or to the mayor?"

"Monsieur Tournon is ill in his own house," replied the young officer: "but Monsieur Guiton, the mayor, has come down to a house near this gate, and will receive you there, as it might be inconvenient to invite you to the town-house, for fear of any disturbance."

"I am ready to wait upon him," replied Edward, "wherever he pleases."

"I am sorry to say," replied the young officer, "that even for so short a distance you must give up your arms and suffer your eyes to be bandaged."

"I have no arms," replied Edward, "as you may see. I purposely came without. As to bandaging my eyes, do as you please. I am no spy nor agent of the French Government." He pulled off his hat as he spoke, bending down his head for the handkerchief to be tied over his eyes; and, as soon as that somewhat disagreeable operation was performed, the young officer took him by the hand, and, with one of the soldiers following, led him into Rochelle. When they had passed on perhaps a hundred yards, Edward received a painful intimation of the state of the city. As they seemed to turn into another street, the young officer caught him by the arm and pulled him sharply aside, saying to the soldier, "Have that body removed. These sights serve to scare the people and make them clamorous."

"I don't think she is dead yet," said the soldier.

"Then have her carried to the hospital as quickly as possible. Don't let her lie there and die."

He then led Edward on, and in two or three minutes more stopped at the door of a house and entered what seemed a small passage, where he removed the handkerchief from Edward's eyes. "Monsieur Guiton is here," he said, opening a door where, in a little room and at a small table, was seated a man of middle age with a dagger by his side and a sword lying on the table. His form seemed once to have been exceedingly powerful and his face firm and resolute; but there was that gaunt and worn expression in every line which Edward had seen in the countenance of his guide.

"Who are you, sir?" said the mayor; "and what is the motive of so rare a thing as the visit of a stranger to the town of Rochelle?"

"My name is Edward Langdale," replied the young Englishman,—"a poor follower of my Lord Montagu, who once bore letters from his Grace of Buckingham to the city of Rochelle."

"Ay, I remember," said the mayor, thoughtfully: "you were roughly used, if I remember right. But now, sir, to your business."

"It is in a great degree personal," replied Edward; "but, as it is private, I would rather speak to you alone."

"Leave us," said the mayor, addressing the young officer, who at once quitted the room and closed the door. "Now, sir," continued Guiton, "I am ready to hear. But be brief, I pray you. Occupation here is more plenty than time, and time more plenty than provisions. Therefore I cannot offer you refreshment nor show you much courtesy."

"I require neither, sir," answered Edward. "My business refers to Monsieur Clement Tournon. He is aged,—infirm; and I have with some difficulty obtained from the Cardinal de Richelieu permission and a pass for him to quit Rochelle."

"Ha!" said the mayor. "Ha! This is strange, young gentleman! You must be in mighty favor! Why, sir, he has driven back women and children and old men—all starving—from the French lines into this city of famine! You, an Englishman, an enemy,—he show such favor to you! Pah! There must be something under this. Have you no message for me?"

"No distinct message, sir," replied Edward: "the cardinal indeed said, in terms so vague that I cannot and will not counsel any reliance upon them, that if Rochelle would submit she should have favorable terms,—as favorable as even I could expect. But I am not his messenger, sir. Neither is there any thing that I know under the plain fact which I have stated."

"Let me see your pass," said Guiton, abruptly. Edward handed it to him, and he examined it minutely. "'Edward Langdale and one companion,—to wit, the syndic Clement Tournon'!" he said. "Well, this is marvellous strange! I cannot let this pass without some further knowledge of so unaccountable a matter."

"Well, Monsieur Guiton," answered Edward, firmly, "pray remember that I, comparatively, a stranger to him, have perilled much to aid and rescue a man who once showed me kindness, nursed me like a father when I was sick, and trusted me as he would his son when I had recovered; and that it is you—his ancient friend, as I am told—who keep him here to die of famine or of sickness when he can be of no further service either with hand or head. I have done my duty. Probably you think you are doing yours."

The mayor waved his hand. "Not so many words," he said. "Can you give me any explanation of this strange matter?"

"None," replied Edward, boldly.

"Does Clement Tournon wish to leave the city?" demanded the mayor again.

"I do not know," replied the young Englishman. "He is old, infirm, and, I am told, sick. I have had no communication with him. But he knows that he can be of no further service in Rochelle, or I believe he would remain in it till the last man died and the last tower fell."

"He is sick," said the mayor, "of a very common disease here. But yet we are not so badly off that we cannot maintain the city till the English fleet arrives."

"The dyke!" said Edward, emphatically.

"Oh," replied Guiton, with a scoffing and unnatural-sounding laugh, "the first storm, such as I have seen many, will sweep that dyke away."

"But, if it stands fourteen days," said Edward, "will you not have a storm within these walls which will sweep away the people of Rochelle?"

Guiton covered his eyes with his hands and remained silent.

"But I have nothing to do with these things, sir," said Edward. "It was only to give aid, to give safety, to a friend, an old noble-minded man who befriended me when I had need of friendship, that I came into Rochelle at all. May I ask what is this sickness that you speak of so lightly?"

"Famine, sir! famine!" said Guiton, sharply. "An ounce of meat,—God knows of what kind,—two ounces of dried peas, and a draught of cold water, is but a meagre diet for old men and babes. We strong men can bear it; but there be some who are foolish enough to die rather than endure it a little longer."

"And have you the heart, sir," asked Edward, with some indignation in his tone, "to refuse the means of escape offered to an old man, and that man Clement Tournon, and to speak lightly of his sufferings,—his martyrdom, I might say?"

"No! no! no!" cried the mayor, vehemently, stretching forth his hands. "Young man, you mistake me! Could my blood nourish him, he should have the last drop. What! old Clement Tournon, my dear, dear friend,—would I deprive him of one hour's life? But it is that I cannot comprehend how you are here,—why you are here. This story that you tell is mere nonsense."

"It is true, nevertheless," said Edward. "But if my word will not satisfy you,—as, indeed, I see no reason why it should,—come with me to Clement Tournon, and he perhaps can tell you how much I can dare to serve a friend."

"I will!" cried Guiton, starting up; but then he sat down again immediately, saying, "No, no! I cannot bear those faces in the streets. Can you find your way yourself?—for I can spare no men."

"Not if I am to be blindfolded," said Edward: "otherwise I could find it, I am sure."

"Pshaw!" said the mayor, "what use of blindfolding you? You will see dying and dead, plague-eaten, famine-stricken. But you can go and tell the Cardinal de Richelieu how the citizens of Rochelle can die rather than see their privileges torn from them, their religion trodden under foot. You can tell him, too, that I will defend those walls as long as there is one soldier left to man them and one hand capable of firing a gun, unless we have security for our faith. You are sure he said nothing more?"

"No, nothing more," answered Edward: "merely that he would give you the most favorable terms, but that he would not have rebellion in the land."

"Rebellion!" muttered Guiton, scornfully. "Who first drew the sword? But let us think of Clement Tournon. I am willing to believe you, young gentleman. If I remember rightly, I have heard the old man speak well of you. And, after all, what harm can you do? You can but repeat a story of our sufferings which I am aware they already know too well in yonder camp. What they do not know is the courage with which we can bear them. Go to the syndic. He has not come forth for several days. Go to him, and see if the prospect of relief can give fresh strength to those enfeebled limbs, fresh energy to that crushed and scarcely-beating heart. Tell him that I not only permit but beseech him to go with you,—that even one mouth less in Rochelle is a relief. He has done his duty manfully to the last. He can do it no longer. Beseech him to go. And yet," he continued, in a sad tone, "I much doubt his strength. Could he have crawled even to the council-chamber, we should have seen his face. Could he have lifted his voice, we should have heard his inspiring words. He was alive last night, I know. But to-day——Alas, alas, my poor friend!" And some tears ran down the worn cheek of the gallant defender of Rochelle.

"I have some brandy under my coat," whispered Edward. "I brought it on purpose for him. It may give him strength at least to reach the outposts."

Guiton seized his hand and wrung it hard. "Noble young man! well bethought!" he said. "But he must have a little food. Stay; he shall have my dinner. I do not want it. By Heaven! the thought that we have saved old Clement Tournon will be better than the best of meals to me!"

He rose from the table, and, approaching the door, gave some orders to those without, and then returned, saying, "There is still much to be thought of, young gentleman, and we have little time to think. I fear if you go out in the daytime the people will pour forth after you, and all will be driven back by cannon-shots."

"It must now be near one o'clock," said Edward, "and it will probably take some time to restore his strength a little. If you, sir, nobly give him up your own food, it must be administered to him by slow degrees, and——"

"What! an ounce of meat?" said Guiton, with a miserable smile: "my fare is the same as the rest, sir. But I must leave all that to you. His own ration will be served to him in an hour. Mine you shall take and give him as it seems best to you. I will write a pass for you and him, that you may not be stopped at any hour of the night or day; and then I must go back to the town-hall, lest men should wonder at my long absence. My only fear is that the good old man will not take my ration if he knows it comes from me."

"Take a little of these strong waters, sir," said Edward, drawing the flask from beneath his coat. Guiton hesitated, and Edward added, "There is much more than he can or ought to use; and, if I tell him that I brought you some supply, he will take the food you send more readily."

The mayor took the flask and drank a very little, giving it back again and saying, "Mix it with water ere you give him any. By Heaven, it is like fire! Yet it will keep me up, I do believe. Hark! there are steps. Put it up, quick. They might murder you for it, if any of the common people were to see it."

The steps were those of a soldier bringing the scanty meal, which was all the mayor allowed himself. A pen and ink and a scrap of paper were then procured, and the pass for Edward and Clement Tournon was soon written. To make all sure, Guiton called the young officer, in whom he seemed to have much confidence, and asked if he would be on guard at the gates that night. The young man answered in the affirmative; and the mayor gave strict directions that Monsieur Edward Langdale and the syndic Tournon should be passed safely and unmolested on their way toward the royal camp. A smile of hope and pleasure came upon the officer's face, and Guiton added, "Do not deceive yourself, Bernard. This is no treaty for surrender. We must suffer a little longer; and then we shall have relief. Here, go with Monsieur Langdale, first to the gate by which he entered, then to the end of the Rue de l'Horloge. There leave him. Farewell, sir," he continued, turning to Edward, and then adding, in a lower tone, "Mark well the turnings from the gate, and walk somewhat slow and feebly, so as not to draw attention. The people are in an irritable state."