"The gendarmes saw his horse drowned, and a rider, whose head was under water, dragged by the stirrup." "It has been a sad day for France," said Joyeuse. Then turning to his men he said, "Come, gentlemen, let us not lose time. Once the waters have retired we shall probably be attacked. Let us intrench ourselves until the arrival of news and food." "But, monseigneur," said a voice, "the horses have eaten nothing since four o'clock yesterday, and are dying with hunger." "We have corn in our encampment," said the ensign, "but what shall we do for the men?" "Oh!" said Joyeuse, "if there be corn, that is all I ask; the men must live like the horses." "Brother," said Henri, "I want a little conversation with you." "Go back to your place; choose a lodging for me, and wait for me there." Henri went back. "We are now in the midst of an army," said he to Remy; "hide yourselves in the lodging I will show you, and do not let madame be seen by any one." Remy installed himself with Diana in the lodging pointed out. About two o'clock the Duc de Joyeuse entered with his trumpets blowing, lodged his troops, and gave strict injunctions to prevent disorder. He distributed barley to the men, and hay to the horses, and to the wounded some wine and beer, which had been found in the cellars, and himself, in sight of all, dined on a piece of black bread and a glass of water. Everywhere he was received as a deliverer with cries of gratitude. "Now," said he to his brother, when they were alone, "let the Flemings come, and I will beat them, and even, if this goes on, eat them, for in truth I am very hungry, and this is miserable stuff," added he, throwing into a corner the piece of bread, which in public he had eaten so enthusiastically. "But now, Henri, tell me how it happens that I find you in Flanders when I thought you in Paris." "My brother," said Henri, "life became insupportable to me at Paris, and I set out to join you in Flanders." "All from love?" asked Joyeuse. "No, from despair. Now, Anne, I am no longer in love; my passion is sadness." "My brother, permit me to tell you that you have chosen a miserable woman. Virtue that cares not for the sufferings of others is barbarous--is an absence of Christian charity." "Oh! my brother, do not calumniate virtue." "I do not calumniate virtue, Henri; I accuse vice, that is all. I repeat that this is a miserable woman, and not worth all the torments she makes you suffer. Oh! mon Dieu! in such a case you should use all your strength and all your power, Henri. In your place, I should have taken her house by assault, and then herself; and when she was conquered, and came to throw her arms round your neck and say, 'Henri, I adore you,' I should have repulsed her, and said, 'You do well, madame; it is your turn--I have suffered enough for you--to suffer also.'" Henri seized his brother's hand. "You do not mean a word of what you say," said he. "Yes, on my honor." "You, so good--so generous!"