|SOME cold viands, flanked by a bottle of good wine, were soon set before him by the tavernkeeper, who talked about the siege, and seemed full of uneasiness lest the city should be taken. “I am told that Bourbon means to allow three days' pillage to his soldiers if he takes the city,” he remarked; “and as to the poor women, not even the holy sisters will be respected.” “You alarm yourself without reason, my good host,” said Pomperant. “The city will not be sacked, and no outrages will be committed.” “How know you that?” demanded the tavern-keeper, staring at him in surprise. “Because such severities would be wholly inconsistent with Bourbon's previous conduct,” returned Pomperant. “Ever since he has been in Provence he has checked all licence on the part of the soldiery. Only those who resist will be slaughtered.” “Then I shan't be one of them. I wish this city had surrendered like Aix. Folks may talk as they please about patriotism and loyalty, and so forth, but I don't like fighting. Ever since the siege began I haven't been able to sleep in my bed. So you don't believe Bourbon to be the bloodthirsty monster he is represented, eh?” “On the contrary, I am persuaded he would offer very advantageous terms to the garrison if they would surrender,” said Pomperant. “Why don't they surrender?” groaned the host. “Don't betray me, sir,” he hastened to add. “Renzo da Ceri would hang me if he heard I had expressed such an unpatriotic sentiment.” “Fear nothing, my good fellow,” said Pomperant, laughing. “I am quite as unpatriotic as yourself, for I concur with you in opinion. I belong to Andrew Doria's fleet, and only landed last night, so I don't know much about the state of the city. Answer me frankly. How long do you think it can hold out?” “Perhaps a month--perhaps longer. They say it can hold out till the king comes to relieve it.” “But if the king shouldn't come--what then?” remarked Pomperant. “Nay, then we _must_ yield. But we shall have some dreadful fighting. When women turn soldiers, it looks as if mischief were meant.” “Women turn soldiers! What mean you, my good host?” inquired Pomperant. “I mean what I say,” replied the tavern-keeper. “Some of the noblest dames of Marseilles have formed themselves into a military corps, and have determined, if called upon, to fight the foe. The lady who commands this company of Amazons is young and beautiful. Mademoiselle Marphise--for so is she named--is the daughter of M. de Vaudreuil, one of our richest merchants. The second in command is likewise young and beautiful, and quite as high-spirited as Marphise. Her name is Marcelline d'Herment.” “Marcelline d'Herment! Impossible!” cried Pomperant. “Why, if I am not misinformed, her brother, the Seigneur d'Herment, assisted the Constable de Bourbon in his flight.”