The rustic levy did not look likely material, and the young officer of the Maison du Roi with difficulty restrained himself from shrugging his shoulders as he walked along to the actual cross-roads. Here, round a rude Calvary, some fifty peasants were telling their beads. He pulled off his hat and passed on. Down the Chantonnay road, along which they had marched the day before, the breeze was lightly raising little swirls of March dust. And away in the distance was a larger cloud. Louis screwed up his eyes, shading them from the sun; then he sprang up the nearest bank. Yes, it was a rider, and one who came on so fast that the beat of his hoofs had been audible but a few moments before he was upon the watcher. Louis jumped down and held up his hand, and the man, seeing that he had to do with a gentleman, pulled up. “From L’Oie, to warn you. . . .” he panted out. “A strong body of patriots from Fontenay and Niort are on the way. They must have reached Chantonnay by now.” Louis said only two words: “With artillery?” “I believe so.” “Lend me your horse,” said Saint-Ermay sharply. And in a moment he was tearing up the road through the groups of startled peasants, to break up the council of war with news that rendered its deliberations useless. There was not a minute to lose. One thing only was determined—not to wait to be attacked, but to march to meet the enemy, a decision which was received outside with acclamations. And so a few thousand undrilled peasants, miserably armed, marched off to battle under the conduct of five gentlemen, two of whom had never seen active service. Down the sunny road they went, full of fervour, chanting litanies, until the roll of the Republican drums came upon their ears. And on this they were split by their leaders into a main body, in the road, and two wings, one on either side, pursuing a parallel course in the embanked fields. Thus it was that only a part of them—those in the road—fulfilled Sapinaud’s prediction, and would not face the hostile artillery. For while their comrades were racing for cover across the fields, the main body, pent between the high banks, perceptibly wavered as the first projectile burst from the blue-coated mass in front of them. It was the critical moment, and seeing it the younger Royrand, Royrand Bras-Coupé, trotted forward in front of the hesitating ranks. “Mes enfants, follow me! There is nothing to be afraid of!” he cried, turning in the saddle. The next instant he and his horse were hurled bodily across the road, and flung in one mangled wreck under the hedge.