"The man who came to me from the town," continued de Lescure, "had a thousand wonderful stories. He says, that twenty times in the day Cathelineau stood, unharmed before the bayonets of the soldiers; that twenty times he was shot at, but it was impossible to wound him. They say that God has interfered for the protection of St. Florent."
"Most probable," said the priest, "most probable; for who, my children, shall attempt to judge the ways of God? Why should He not put out his right hand to assist his own?"
"And were there not many of the townspeople killed?" asked Agatha.
"We did not hear," replied de Lescure; "but the news of their triumph would travel faster than the account of their misfortunes; there could not but have been much bloodshed."
"After all," said Henri, "we do not know how much of this is true. We must not believe it all; it is too glorious to be true."
"Do not say so, M. Larochejaquelin," said the priest, "do not say so; we will do greater things than that with the assistance of God and the blessed Virgin; but we will not envy the men of St. Florent the honour they have won."
"You believe it all, then, Father Jerome," said Marie. "You believe that the republicans have been beaten."
"Every word, Mademoiselle, every word religiously. I should be a heathen else, or worse than that, a republican."
The group who were discussing the probability of the victory said to have been gained at St. Florent, were standing at the window of one of the front rooms of the château, which looked immediately on one of the whitewashed recumbent lions, and from it they could see the wooden gates, the lodge, and the paved road which ran from Chatillon to Vihiers in front of the château. As the priest finished speaking, three men rode through the gates, into the avenue, directly up to the house-door: one was tolerably well mounted on a large horse, the second was on a shaggy pony, and the third, who was rather behind the others, was seated on a mule of most unprepossessing appearance, whose sides he did not for a moment cease to lacerate with his heels, to enable himself to keep up with his companions.
"That is Foret, from St. Florent himself!" shouted the priest, rushing out towards the door, as soon as he saw the first horseman turn in at the gate; "a good man, and true as any living, and one who hates a skulking republican as he does the devil."