But these demonstrations did not often escape her. She oftenest showed the forced cheerfulness that I have already mentioned. The moments when any kind of distress showed itself were exceptional, and many of them were caused by the persistence with which I sought a response in words to my declarations of love. There came at last the afternoon--how well I remember it!--when we sat together on the stone bench in the sunlit part of the old courtyard. Through the interstices of the overspreading branches we could see a perfectly clear blue sky. The slightest movement of air made the leaves rustle sleepily, dreamily. Save the chirping of the birds, no other sound emanated from the forest. The murmur of the river at the foot of the wooded steep came up to us. In a corner of the yard the two gypsies lay asleep. Some of my men were off on various employments. A few had gone for game; others to fish. One of them, Frojac, was in Clochonne disguised as a peasant, to keep a watch on the garrison there. The party of foragers had not returned. Of the men at the chateau, those who were not on guard were with Blaise Tripault in the great hall, where they had just finished eating and drinking, Hugo had gone to the stables to feed mademoiselle's horses. Jeannotte was asleep in her chamber. Mademoiselle and I sat in silence, in the midst of a solitude, a remote tranquillity, a dreamy repose that it was difficult to imagine as ever to be broken. She seemed to yield to the benign influence of this enchanted place. She leaned back restfully, closed her eyes, and smiled. Suddenly there came from within the chateau the sound of my men singing. Their rude, strong voices were low at first, but they rose in pitch and volume as their song progressed. Mademoiselle ceased to smile, opened her eyes, again took on the look of dark foreboding. The song had an ominous ring. It was one of the Huguenot war hymns sung in the army of our Henri: "With pricking of steel Our foe we have sped, We've peppered his heel With pellets of lead, And the battles we win are the gifts of the Lord, Who pointeth our cannon and guideth our sword. We fire and we charge and there's nothing can bar When we fight in the track of the King of Navarre. Then down, down, down with the Duke of Guise! Death, death, death to our enemies! And glory, we sing, to God and our King, And death to the foes of Navarre!" The melody was grim and stirring. The men's voices vibrated with war-like wrath. They were impatient for battles, charges, the kind of fighting that is done between great armies on the open field, when there is the roar and smoke of cannon, the rattle of small firearms, the clash of steel, the cries of captains, the shrieks and groans of wounded, the plenteous spilling of blood. They were hungry for carnage.