1586, of which I write, France was in a terrible state. The nation was
divided into two hostile parties--those who fiercely resisted any
changes being made in the Church, and the Huguenots, those of the
Religion--and the whole land was given over to brawling and disorder.

My father, who was held in high esteem by the Huguenot party, had fought
through three campaigns under Gaspard de Coligny, the Admiral, as men,
by virtue of his office, generally called him. Severely wounded in one
of the numerous skirmishes, he had returned home to be nursed back to
health by my mother. Before he recovered a peace was patched up between
the two parties, and he had since remained quietly on his estate.

He it was who, rather to my surprise, now came riding at a foot pace
into the courtyard. The stranger accompanying him sat his horse limply,
and seemed in some danger of falling from the saddle.

[Illustration: "The stranger accompanying him sat his horse limply."]

"Take the bridle, Jacques," cried my father. "Edmond, let your mother
know I am bringing with me a wounded man."

When we had assisted the stranger into one of the chambers I saw that he
was of medium height, spare in figure, but tough and sinewy. He had a
swarthy complexion, and small, black, twinkling eyes that gave the
impression of good-humour. His right arm, evidently broken, was carried
in a rough, hastily-made sling; his doublet was bloodstained, and his
forehead had been scored by the slash of a knife.

He must have been suffering agony, yet he did not even wince when my
father, who had considerable experience of wounds, set the broken limb,