"Not for the world," replied Rose; "oh, no, Helen, do not suppose it," and her cheek too, grew red. The breakfast was soon brought, and Louis de Montigni ate a few hasty mouthfuls; but he was too much excited and too anxious to find any long repose. More than once he rose and looked out; more than once he questioned the farmer as to whether no one had come during the morning to furnish him with arms. He asked eagerly, too, for intelligence from St. André, and heard, with feelings of impatience and pain, that the King had marched at an early hour to take up his position on the ground he had chosen for his field of battle. He then sent out two of his men to gain farther information, and to see if any horses could be procured; but minute after minute passed by; the hour of ten arrived; and every moment he expected to see the old Commander and his party at the ford before the farm-house, before anything that he required could be obtained. The men brought back word that the village was nearly deserted, except by a few sick and wounded; but they had seen the army of the King, they said, extending in a long line across the plain, and they thought they had also perceived the heads of Mayenne's columns advancing from the side of Ivry. "Well, we must go as we are," said De Montigni; "we fought the other day at Marzay without a scratch; and we shall ride lighter without armour. Have everything ready to set out the moment my uncle appears. Two of you, however, must stay with these ladies. You are all anxious to go, I know, so choose by lot, and make haste, that all may be ready." The moments that thus passed were sad and terrible to poor Rose d'Albret. She would not say a word to stay him; and yet she would have given worlds, had it been possible without damage to his honour, to have withheld him from the field. Each order that he gave, each inquiry that he made, roused fresh fears and apprehensions in her breast; and the words of tenderness and affection with which he strove to cheer her, but rendered her more sad, while again and again she asked herself, if she should ever hear that voice again. Nor were the feelings of Helen de la Tremblade less painful, though perhaps they were less anxious, as, seated near the window, she gazed forth in sad and motionless meditation. To those who stood beside her, all was risked upon that battle; but to her, the bright hopes of life, which in their case were but chequered with fears that an hour might sweep away, were gone for ever. Their words of love, their anxiety for each other, all awoke painful thoughts and bitter memories; and over all her contemplations, spread the dark cloud of self-reproach, leaving not one bright spot in the future or the past.