“Back!” I shouted to those who crowded round. “Back! Give room!” and, helping him to dismount, and lending him my arm, for he was very faint, and kept up only by his courage, we crossed the yard slowly, and began to ascend the stone steps of the main entrance, where I already saw the Princess with a group round her. As we reached the steps, she called out in sudden recognition: “It is Maligny! Maligny!” And she ran down to us. “Speak, man! Speak! My husband--Condé--what of him?” He bit his dry lips and looked around, then answered thickly: “The King has agreed to his death; but there is still hope. I bring his message to you. It is: _Take the young child and flee into Egypt_. And, madame--go now--for it will be too late to-morrow.” He said the last words quickly, as if he felt he would not have time to finish his speech, and then fell sideways into my arms like a dead man. And now I saw what a good woman can do. Save for a rapid gesture of despair as Maligny gave his abrupt message, she made no sign, but bent over the fainting man, giving some orders about him as calmly as if he, and he alone, were the one object that filled her mind. We carried him to the nearest room--mine--and Chandieu, the Prince’s chaplain, a man skilled in wounds, was soon by his side. To our intense relief, he pronounced Maligny merely faint from fatigue, saying that the wound on his arm was nothing, and that he would be as well as ever in a few hours. Then he took charge of him, driving us all from the room as he would be alone with his patient. We gathered in a group on the rush-covered daïs of the great hall. We were all there except Marcilly, whom I saw nowhere. Lanoy had accounted for his man, and Coqueville was limping and bruised. It was he who had been ridden down, and it was thought killed, by the one who had escaped, but he had come to no hurt. We were discussing Maligny’s tidings and Condé’s message, and Coqueville was earnest in his entreaty for the Princess to leave Châtillon at once. “Madame,” he said, “it is not for ourselves I speak. There is monseigneur here to think of, the heir of the _Sires des fleurs des lys_.” As he spoke he placed his sunburnt hand lightly on the shoulder of the slender, fair-haired boy, her son, who stood by her side. He was not alone in pressing the matter, and it was for an hour or more, perhaps, that we discussed it, until we reached the last corner in madame’s patience, for she spoke firmly and crisply: “Messieurs! Very well! I shall leave Châtillon now; but for Orleans. My place is there. I have neglected my duty too long.” She was facing us, a small, slight woman she was, but for the moment she seemed to have grown absolutely tall. “As for Henri here,” she went on, stooping and giving the boy a fierce little kiss, “he must live for vengeance if need be.”