“I can’t conceive where he can have gone to,” he said. “There is a man here, who has only just come, who says that he saw Gilbert walking very fast towards La Chapelle-Michel about three hours ago. He took it for granted that he was going there to make a vow or pay his devotions before—this.” He indicated the scene below. “But I think he must have been mistaken. . . . What is it, Antoine? More wine?” * * * * * * Some half-hour later the Vicomte was down again among the crowd, listening to the story of how the village had organised itself, when suddenly the narrator’s hand tightened on his arm, and Louis’ heart leapt like the rest as he recognised the figure that came quickly out on to the steps. In the rapturous storm of applause which greeted the advent of the Marquis he edged his way nearer, and, when the cheering subsided, heard the latter ask simply: “What do you want of me, my friends?” Evidently out of respect, the peasants had accorded their _seigneur_ a spokesman. A burly, middle-aged man, in whom Louis recognised the miller, separated himself from the rest and advanced up a step or two. “It is time, Monseigneur, is it not?” he said in his strong Vendean accent. “We have borne it long enough. Our priests are gone, our churches are empty. Now we ourselves must go out of the country to fight for those who oppress us.” His hoarse voice shook with a hardly-mastered passion. “We will never go, never! We will die first here in Vendée. . . . Monsieur le Marquis, they have risen in the Marais, in the Pays de Retz; Messieurs de Sapinaud took Les Herbiers the day before yesterday, the men of Le Coudrais, peasants like ourselves, have defeated the National Guard of Saint-Fulgent, Montaigu is captured, and now we hear that the men of Saint-Florent-le-Vieil on the Loire have taken Chemillé and are marching on Cholet. . . . We must go, too! But we must have some one to lead us—we are ignorant of war. We have come to ask you to be our leader.” A dead silence, more impressive than clamour, followed his simple words. The miller stood motionless on the steps, leaning on the old fowling-piece which he carried, and looking up, like every one there, at the young man on the steps. And perhaps, of all the _seigneurs_ of Vendée, Gilbert de Château-Foix, the cold and prudent, alone accepted on the instant the call to that desperate and heroic conflict. “If it is your wish,” he said steadily, looking down on them, “I am ready to lead you to the best of my ability. But it is my duty to urge you to remember against what forces you are pitting yourselves.” “We know, Monsieur le Marquis—we have remembered!” came back to him, mixed with wild cries of “Long live the Marquis!” “To Les Herbiers!” Gilbert held up his hand. “Before I can settle anything I must talk with some of you. Let Jean Guéchery, Laurent Robineau, and François Batliau come up here. And where is M. de Saint-Ermay?”