René de Flavigny, who was sensible to atmospheric conditions, felt a fresh welling up within him of a vague uneasiness that had been his all morning, an uneasiness which the two or three other little groups of officers, mostly engineers, on the platform of the fort did not appear to be sharing. Instead of going on with his letter to his father-in-law he allowed himself to wander off into speculations and apprehensions which could scarcely with prudence have been committed to paper. He thought bitterly, regretfully, of the insane jealousies and incompetence of the Comtes de Puisaye and d'Hervilly, which, during the past days of inaction, had been growing more manifest every hour. And why had there been those days of inaction? Why was he, an officer in an émigré regiment, sitting idly here in safety on the peninsula writing a letter, when they all knew that the Chouans whom they had not been allowed to support had been beaten off from Auray, and were, if reports were to be trusted, faring none too well in other portions of the mainland? What madness possessed the generals to keep them, regiments in the main of trained men, doing nothing, while the irregular peasant levies were pitted against the now reinforced Republican garrisons of the interior? It was surely all too probable that these, gathering in force, would utterly crush the brave but undisciplined guerrilla troops. In that case, what of Fortuné de la Vireville, who had gone off so gaily with his Bretons ten days ago? The Marquis got up from the embrasure, and, despite the heat, began to pace up and down. Surely the proper course was to push on into the interior, while the dismay which their coming had undoubtedly spread amongst the Blues was still fresh, and before the latter had time to discover that the Royalist invaders were numerically not so strong as they had imagined. Puisaye indeed was credited with the desire for such a course, but, owing to the equivocal instructions of the English Government, his will was not paramount. It was quite true that their present position was strong; this very fortress on whose upper works he now meditated formed an almost impregnable defence to the amazingly narrow entrance of the lower part of the peninsula, and out there, half seen in the haze, was the friendly English squadron to protect them against any attack by sea on their rear. But René and his friends were all impatient to do something more than merely create, in this favourable position, a dépôt for supplies with which to replenish the Royalists of the interior. Why, in God's name, did they not press on, and strike while the iron was hot . . . and why also had they not with them a French prince of the blood? Of what use to say that the Comte d'Artois was following? He was wanted now!