There was a pause. Then the old soldier said gravely, but more kindly, to the young one, “Tell me the facts, captain” (the first time he had acknowledged his visitor’s military rank). An hour had scarce elapsed since the rusty figure was stopped by the sentinels at the gate, when two glittering officers passed out under the same archway, followed by a servant carrying a furred cloak. The sentinels presented arms. The elder of these officers was the governor: the younger was the late scarecrow, in a brand-new uniform belonging to the governor’s son. He shone out now in his true light; the beau ideal of a patrician soldier; one would have said he had been born with a sword by his side and drilled by nature, so straight and smart, yet easy he was in every movement. He was like a falcon, eye and all, only, as it were, down at the bottom of the hawk’s eye lay a dove’s eye. That compound and varying eye seemed to say, I can love, I can fight: I can fight, I can love, as few of you can do either. The old man was trying to persuade him to stay at Bayonne, until his wound should be cured. “No, general, I have other wounds to cure of longer standing than this one.” “Well, promise me to lay up at Paris.” “General, I shall stay an hour at Paris.” “An hour in Paris! Well, at least call at the War Office and present this letter.” That same afternoon, wrapped in the governor’s furred cloak, the young officer lay at his full length in the coupe of the diligence, the whole of which the governor had peremptorily demanded for him, and rolled day and night towards Paris. He reached it worn with fatigue and fevered by his wound, but his spirit as indomitable as ever. He went to the War Office with the governor’s letter. It seemed to create some little sensation; one functionary came and said a polite word to him, then another. At last to his infinite surprise the minister himself sent down word he wished to see him; the minister put several questions to him, and seemed interested in him and touched by his relation. “I think, captain, I shall have to send to you: where do you stay in Paris?” “Nowhere, monsieur; I leave Paris as soon as I can find an easy-going horse.” “But General Bretaux tells me you are wounded.” “Not dangerously.” “Pardon me, captain, but is this prudent? is it just to yourself and your friends?” “Yes, I owe it to those who perhaps think me dead.” “You can write to them.” “I grudge so great, so sacred a joy to a letter. No! after all I have suffered I claim to be the one to tell her I have kept my word: I promised to live, and I live.” “HER? then I say no more, only tell me what road you take.” “The road to Brittany.” As the young officer was walking his horse by the roadside about a league and a half from Paris, he heard a clatter behind him, and up galloped an aide-de-camp and drew up alongside, bringing his horse nearly on his haunches.