We left Edward Langdale at nightfall, and, by the reader's good leave, may as well take him up again about the same hour, but with an interval of some ten days. The interval measured upon the earth's surface must be equally great. When we last saw him he was entering a little town on the frontiers of Burgundy, just after the cool sunset of a chilly spring day. He was now riding out of the fine old town of Niort after a warm day's journey; for even under the genial sky of France ten days will make a great difference, and bring the warm breath of the South to expand the flowers, though winter even there will sometimes linger in the lap of spring.

"Well, sir," said Jacques BeauprÉ, who was a good deal tired with a longer day's ride than usual, "everybody says you will find the town full of soldiers; and we all know where fighting men are there is no room for civil men."

"We will find room, Jacques," replied Edward, in a light, confident tone; "and, as to civility, if we don't show ourselves too militant, the fighting-men will be civil enough, depend on it. But, my good friend, I must, if possible, see the cardinal to-morrow. They tell me that an assault upon Rochelle will be made shortly; and, if I could but get into the town for a few hours——"

Jacques BeauprÉ shook his head, saying, "Ah, sir, it is all in vain. I will go as far to help poor old Clement Tournon as any man; but the good syndic is most likely dead of starvation by this time; and, if he is not, you might as well try to persuade a cat to let a mouse get out of her jaws as attempt to persuade his Eminence to let one single soul, old or young, get out of Rochelle."

"I will try, at all events," answered Edward. "He who makes no effort never succeeds. He who makes an effort may fail, but he may succeed. The man who helped me at my utmost need shall never say that I did not try to help him when he was in a harder scrape. Ride on, ride on: we have still three leagues to go."

The twilight grew fainter as they went, and it was quite dark when they emerged from the little wood which lies about a quarter of a league from the small old town of Fontenay, then universally called Rohan Rohan. It is now a mere insignificant burgh; but in those times and in the time before it was a small city of some importance,—if not for its commerce, at least for its capabilities for defence. It had even ventured a short time before to set at defiance the arms of France, and had made an obstinate resistance, but, having fallen at length, had suffered severely from the captors.

It was night, as I have said, when Edward and his two companions first came within sight; and very little of the place would have been visible had not a large body of men, which formed the rear-guard of the royal army, been marched out some days before and encamped a mile beyond the town. Every one who has seen a camp must have remarked how much more light finds its way to the sky from amongst the tents in the early part of the night than arises from amongst the houses of a city, though, perhaps, much more populous; and now the blaze from watchfires and lamps and torches threw out the dark masses of the town of Rohan Rohan, with its fine old castle, in strong relief.

It is rarely that the rear of an army is guarded with as much care as its van. Few captains are as careful as Earl Percy. But in this case negligence was more excusable; for no one in all the camp ever dreamed of such a thing as an attack in the rear. Moreover, to say the truth, that rear-guard in advance of Rohan Rohan was composed of a somewhat disorderly set, gentlemen and soldiers alike, not one of whom wished particularly to see the fall of Rochelle.

To explain the cause of this indifference would take up too much time; but the words of Bassompierre revealed the fact when he said, "You will see we shall be fools enough to take Rochelle."

However that might be, Edward and his companions had passed the centre of the town before they saw a single soldier. It was badly lighted, it is true; but the cause of their not seeing any was that there were none to be seen. The young gentleman looked for guard, or picquet, or patrol, in vain, till he arrived within a hundred yards of the end of the street which leads up from Pont de CossÉ to the castle. There, however, he was challenged for the first time,—one of a group of musketeers who were drinking at the door of a house starting up and demanding the password.

Edward, unable to give it, requested to see the man's officer, and was led unceremoniously into the house, where he found an old gray-headed gentleman seated reading, with his steel cap upon the table. To him the young gentleman's errand was soon explained, and his safe-conduct exhibited.

"I cannot let you pass, young gentleman, without further orders," said the old man; "but if you will wait here for an hour I will send on your name and the description of your pass to our commander. He will soon let us hear from him. I am rather curiously situated myself, and therefore must be careful."

"I must wait the leisure of the king's officers," answered Edward, in a civil tone. "But, in the mean while, perhaps my two men, who are without, can get some forage for the horses and some food for themselves. I have not seen an inn open in the whole place."

"I suppose not," said the old officer, dryly. "But some of my people will easily find for yours what they want. Pray, be seated and wait till my return."

He was not gone more than five minutes; and then about an hour passed in broken and desultory conversation between him and his visitor, whom he treated with every sort of distinction,—for by this time Edward was once more equipped in the garments of a gentleman of the court, which were none the less gentlemanly for being plain and sober. Some of the old man's questions and observations seemed to his young companion somewhat strange: he asked if Edward had met any parties of armed men on the road, how long he had travelled, which way he had come, and remarked that this siege was a weary business, but that the cardinal was determined to carry Rochelle whatever it might cost.

Edward replied as shortly as politeness permitted, and only put a few questions in return. Amongst them, however, he inquired who was the officer commanding the troops in front, and heard, with sensations not altogether pleasant, that his name was Monsieur de Lude, into whose hands he had fallen once before.

At the end of an hour he was relieved, however; for a soldier, entering the room with every appearance of haste, gave a letter into the hands of the old officer, who opened and read it with a good deal of merriment.

"Monsieur de Lude writes thus," he said: "'Present my compliments to Monsieur de Langdale and inform him that I cannot let him pass the posts till I have the cardinal's permission, which I have no doubt will be given as soon as he hears his name.' Shall I read the rest?" asked the old officer.

Edward nodded, and he went on thus:—"'I got into a devil of a scrape last summer about him and a girl he had with him. Who the mischief he is I don't know; but, by what the cardinal said when I saw him, I think he must be his Eminence's pet cat turned into a cavalier. On your life, be as civil to him as possible; give him the best rooms in the castle, and feed and drink him well, till I can come over myself,—which will be as soon as I hear from the cardinal to-morrow. I am half afraid to stop him. But what can I do? The orders are strict not to let any one pass the posts, because'——The rest," continued the old man, abruptly, "refers to matters of no consequence. You will find the rooms of the castle very comfortable, for they were inhabited by the Duc de Rohan but a few weeks before we sat down before the place, and some of the old servants have been suffered to remain till the king's pleasure is known. Heaven grant there be no ghosts there to disturb you!—though there are some strange tales, as in regard to every old country-house."

"I am not afraid of any thing unsubstantial," answered Edward. "Do you know what has become of the Duc de Rohan?"

"No,—not rightly," replied the old officer, with some slight hesitation. "They did say he was threatening the right flank of the army with a body of horse; but he must have found out by this time it was of no use. Men must submit to circumstances, sir. But let us go. I will have the honor of escorting you. We shall find your servants somewhere about." And, calling aloud for torches, he led the way out of the low house where he had taken up his quarters, and gave some orders to the men about the door.

Before the torches were lighted and Edward Langdale and his companion, with two men before them, had proceeded a hundred yards up the hill, Jacques BeauprÉ and Pierrot had joined them, leading the horses. In sooth, the party proceeded exceedingly slowly; and it took a full quarter of an hour to reach the gates of the chateau. All watch and ward was gone; and at the inner door of the lodging-part of the building appeared a tremulous old man with a candle in his hand. The old officer called him "Matthew," as if they had been long acquainted, and ordered him briefly to pay every attention to the guest and give him the best chambers in the house.

"Those are the duchess's apartments," said the old major-domo. "We will have a fire lighted in a moment, gentlemen; but I fear me there is not much in the house to eat. However, I will tell old Henri Borgne, who was cook here before MaÎtre Grondin's father came, to get something ready with all speed."

"No, no," said the old officer: "this gentleman is not fond of antediluvian sauces. I will make shift to send him up a roast chicken and a pottage. We are not particularly well off for provisions down below; but I can find something, and I think, Matthew, you can find the wine."

"Hush, hush, sir," said the old man, in a low voice: "if your soldiers did but hear."

"I will break the first man's neck that climbs the hill," replied the officer.

"I want nothing," said Edward. "We supped at CossÉ, and my men have taken care of themselves below, depend upon it. Where is the duchess now, Monsieur Matthew? and who has she got with her?"

"Oh, she is in Venice still," replied the old man; "and there are Madame St. Aignan, and Mademoiselle de Mirepoix, and three or four maids, and the serving-men. Do you know her, sir? She's a fine lady, and mighty gay."

"I have not the honor," said Edward. "But now, my good man, let the fire be lighted: I shall go to bed soon, for I have ridden long and hard. I trust," he continued, addressing the old officer, "that Monsieur de Lude will communicate my coming to his Eminence as soon as possible; for it is very necessary that I should see him without delay."

"Be you sure he will do that," replied the other. "De Lude is not a man to burn his fingers twice with the same chestnut."

He then took his leave. The old servant with the candle marshalled the way ceremoniously to a very splendid suite of apartments which had escaped, I know not how, from the rude hands of the soldiers when the town was taken. Pierrot and Jacques BeauprÉ disposed of themselves, doubtless very comfortably; and Edward sat down to meditate. The reader need not ask what was the subject of his thoughts, if he remembers that those were the halls and dwelling-place of the ancestors of Lucette.

"Was it a dream?" he asked himself. Hardly nine months before, had he passed with her not many miles from that very spot? had they wandered alone together for weeks without restraint? had they borne suffering, anxiety, danger in dear companionship which made even danger sweet? had they been married, parted, met again, and again parted?

There are times when a sensation of the unreality of all things upon this earth comes over us,—when memory seems but a dream, our past acts a vision, our hopes, our fears, our enjoyments, but the fancies of the fleeting hour.

For an instant it was so with Edward Langdale as he sat and gazed into the flickering and phantasm-begetting fire. But when he turned his eyes around upon those old walls, whose scrolls and sconces and fantastic ornaments all spoke of the past,—all told that he was in the dwelling of the Rohan Rohans,—the strange, shadowy doubts vanished: he felt that there was something real in the world,—something more real than mere tangible objects; that, if all else died or passed away like a show, the realities of heart and mind must remain forever,—that esteem, affection, love, truth, honesty and honor, genius and wisdom, can never perish.

How long he sat he knew not; but his meditations were interrupted by the old servant bringing in fresh wood, with a man from the town below, bearing a tray of provisions.

The former he was glad to have, for the night had grown chilly; but the latter he sent away to Pierrot and BeauprÉ, bidding them eat and then go to rest, as he wanted nothing more. The old man, after reverent offers of service, put some fresh candles in the sconces and left him, assuring him that he should have had candlesticks,—fine silver flambeaux,—but that they had been taken away.

Edward, left alone, began to pace up and down the room. He looked at the bed, which seemed comfortable enough, and thought of lying down; but he had no inclination to sleep. The chamber was a square room in an angle of the tower, one side looking to the south and the other to the east. The windows were without blinds or shutters. Edward advanced to one on the southern side, from which there was a view over a considerable part of the camp. The glow which had risen in that direction some hours before had considerably diminished: the watchfires were dying out; the torches no longer moved about from place to place. He lifted his eyes to the sky, studded with stars, and saw a planet with a pure mild light moving upward untwinkling amongst the more steadfast watchers of the night.

"Can there be any truth," he thought, "in those tales of the astrologers? Can the fate of many men, of many nations, depend upon the course of such a pale, silent orb as that?" And, turning to the table again, he sat down and let his thoughts run on in the new course they had assumed. Every thing grew more and more silent around. The village clock struck. He did not count its sounds, but he felt it must be near midnight.

Who can tell what it is which, when alone and in silence, at that still spectral hour, seems to chill the warm blood of the heart, and fills the brain with ideas vague, and awful, and sublime,—with fancies gloomy, if not fearful?

Edward sat thoughtfully for nearly half an hour longer. The fire had fallen low, and he rose and threw some more wood upon it; but it would not burn. He then rose and went to the other window, which looked eastward. The moon was just rising, and he could see over a wide extent of country, with the wood which he had passed on his way to Fontenay on the left of the picture, then half a mile or so of open sandy ground, then another wood to the right, and farther still, on the same side, but more distant, the spires and towers of some other little town. There was the haziness of moonlight over the whole scene; but the moon, though she was strong enough to cast long shadows from every elevated object, so flooded the whole scene with light that the more distant features were not distinct.

Suddenly Edward raised his hand half open to his brow, and gazed from underneath. He saw something that surprised him. A dark figure issued from the wood; more followed; line after line of black, soldier-like phantoms swept over the sandy ground from the one wood toward the other, disappearing as they entered. But still more followed, horse and foot. They seemed to be a moving host; but there was something so quiet and gliding in their motions that Edward could hardly believe they were substantial. He opened the window quietly and listened. There was no noise; there was no beat of drum, or sound of fife, or clang of arms, or tramp of marching men. Yet still the line went on, troop after troop and squadron after squadron, in the same silent, stealthy way; and where he stood he could discern no shadows cast by the moon from the passing multitude.

At length he thought that fatigue must have affected his mind or body strangely; and, retiring from the window, he closed it, and lay down to sleep without undressing.

His eyes closed heavily in a few minutes; but, ere an hour was over, he started up and gazed around him, wondering where he was. Then, as remembrance came back, he approached the window again and gazed out. The moon was higher in the heaven, and shining with great splendor; but the phantom host had disappeared, and nothing was to be seen but the misty landscape and the shadows of the trees.