It was the master of the house himself. He had been a Marquis under Capet, now he called himself simply Hamelin. He was a Blue, but a good fellow enough. The Republic ruled him body and soul; he lent his sword and his castle. But he had not become cruel or wicked in its service. The morning of this very day, Captain Hamelin, for so he had been appointed by the Republic, learned that some Chouans were at his farm, had headed a detachment of Blues and postponed his betrothal. You know how he had seized Baudelot. As soon as the Chouan was in keeping the Captain had returned to his betrothal feast, and this is the reason why he did not shoot his prisoner at once or take him to Nantes. Captain Hamelin was not so thorough a Blue as to have quite forgotten the hospitable old customs of Bretagne soil. Therefore, while his friends were sitting down to table, he felt it incumbent to call upon his captive. “Can I do anything for you, monsieur?” he asked. “Monsieur,” said Baudelot, bowing, “I should like the use of at least one of my hands.” “Your hands shall be unbound, monsieur,” answered Hamelin, “if you will promise not to try to escape. But before you promise, remember that at six o’clock to-morrow morning you will surely be taken to Nantes.” “And shot at eight o’clock just as surely?” asked Baudelot. Captain Hamelin was silent. “Very well, monsieur,” said Baudelot. “Unbind my hands and unless I’m delivered, I give my word as a gentleman and a Christian to stay here like a pigeon with clipped wings.” Captain Hamelin could not help smiling at his prisoner’s allusion, and untied his hands. “Now,” said Baudelot, stretching his arms like a man stiff from sleep, “now, monsieur, I thank you, and am truly your servant until to-morrow. It will not be my fault if my gratitude does not last longer!” Captain Hamelin said: “If you have any last arrangements--a will to make, for instance--I will send you writing materials.” He was touched, for he was not a Breton for nothing. Seeing this, Baudelot took his hand. “Do you know,” he said sadly, “that simple word ‘will’ wounds me more than the words ‘death at Nantes!’ It recalls that all my friends are dead. There is no one to whom I can bequeath my name, my sword, my love and my hate, and these are all I have left. Yet, it must be sweet to dispose of a fortune, to be generous even beyond the tomb; and while writing last benefits, to imagine the tears of joys and sorrow they will cause. That is sweet and honorable, isn’t it, Captain? I must not think of it.” “I will send you some dinner,” said Hamelin. “This is my day of betrothal, and my table is better provided than usual. My fiancée herself shall serve you, monsieur.” In one of the highest apertures of his cage, Baudelot saw a daisy which had been sown there by one of the first occupants of the dovecote. The pretty flower swayed joyously in the wind, and he gathered it and offered it to the Captain.