"Yes?" said Madame la Marquise quietly, for the man had paused. She knew well enough what he was about to tell her. He looked her straight in the eyes. They expressed a query, and he nodded silently in reply. A low moan of pain broke from Madame's lips; she pressed her handkerchief to her lips to smother a louder cry. "M. le Marechal found M. le Marquis de Mortain lying amongst the dead," said Mathurin slowly after a while. "He told me to tell Madame la Marquise that M. Laurent must have died like a hero; he had a broken sword in his hand and three bullet wounds in his chest.... M. le Marechal lifted him up in his arms and carried him to his horse. I helped to lift the body into the saddle, and M. le Marechal ordered me to ride back to Mortain as fast as I could and to send out half a dozen men to him at once. 'When you have done that, Mathurin,' he said to me, 'go to La Frontenay as quickly as may be, take the prisoner Jean Blanchet with you, and see Madame la Marquise de Mortain and Mademoiselle de Courson. Tell them that I have conveyed M. le Marquis to the Chateau of Courson, and that there I will await their pleasure.' And that is all, Madame la Marquise," concluded Mathurin clumsily, for, indeed, he felt overawed by the look of hopeless grief which had spread over Madame's marble-like face. "M. le Marechal ordered the carriole to be sent for Madame la Marquise. It should be here by now." When he had finished speaking she gave him a stately nod. "I thank you, good Mathurin," she said slowly. "I pray you go back to your master now and tell him that Mademoiselle Fernande and I will be at the Chateau of Courson within the hour." She appeared like a statue, pale and unbending. One slender hand rested on the back of the chair to steady herself; the other closed tightly over her lace handkerchief. The kerchief round her shoulders looked less white than her cheeks: the golden light of a summer's morning crept in through the narrow window. A glorious sunshine followed on the storm of the night; the warm rays glinted on Madame's white hair, on her pale forehead and on the rings upon her fingers. Mathurin, who had been in Paris in the hot days of the Terror, remembered, as he looked on her, the martyred Queen going to her death. He gave a sign to Jean Blanchet. He would not have dared to say another word; he felt the majesty of this overwhelming grief, and, having made a profound obeisance, he and the old Chouan went out of the room. V Fernande's arms were round the unfortunate woman who had sunk half-swooning into the chair.