“It is Mademoiselle Adèle de Montigny; they were to have been married in the early days of September. And his mother—it is the fourth son she has lost.” It seemed that those who listened to the vivid recital could see the dim forests and floating smoke-wreaths, with vague glimpses of the hidden foe. They could imagine the incessant rattle of musketry, could see terrible figures looming through the haze, and watch the gleaming of the war-axes as the weapons fell clattering from stricken hands. CHAPTER XXVI. _DU CHESNE’S RETURN._ “AND M. de St. Rochs?” Cecile was clinging to Diane’s gown, trembling, shivering, half believing herself already a widow, the soft outlines and fresh bloom of youth contrasting oddly with the pathetic trouble of her eyes. “M. de St. Rochs was safe, Madame, when I left. I was sent away in charge of mon Capitaine before the fight was fairly over.” Like a little tempest, Madame de St. Rochs rushed into Diane’s arms, sobbing, laughing, uttering inarticulate exclamations of joy. Le Ber’s grasp on his ward’s arm tightened. She understood that he desired her to ask the question which his own lips could not frame. Twice Diane tried to speak, but her throat seemed to close each time; the words would not come. It was Cecile who, in a burst of joyful confidence, found voice for the consuming desire of the French girl’s heart. “And M. Le Ber du Chesne—he is safe, of course?” “Ah! yes, Madame, our brave young commandant. And is it any wonder that the bluecoats love their leader? He fought like all the king’s troops in one, being of a valor truly marvellous.” The father caught his breath sharply and drew a hand across his eyes, as if to clear his mind from confused ideas. Diane had been watching the working of le Canotier’s scarred and weather-beaten face with vigilant scrutiny. The reaction, the sweetness of relief, was almost as poignant a sensation as pain. For an instant she closed her eyes and clung to Le Ber’s arm. With what trembling thanksgiving she welcomed this gleam of hope. The Blessed Virgin had granted her prayer; the Holy Mother had a woman’s heart, and was touched by compassion. Though du Chesne would never be hers, yet he would live; his career, in the brilliancy of its promise, would not be cut short; he would continue to move in the light of God’s earth; she would be spared the supreme anguish of yielding him up to death. Absorbed in the interest of le Canotier’s narrative, and in the incidents attending it, no one perceived the rapid advance of another canoe. The shrill voice of a child proclaimed the fact. “_Voilà!_ yet another canoe,” exclaimed one of the group. “Truly, more news. It is M. le Chevalier and the Sieur d’Ordieux—yes, and Baptiste Bras de Fer.”