hins.

On we went, the wind and rain in our faces. By good luck the lantern
held out, though its light was not much better than that of a glowworm.
We picked our way through narrow streets swimming with water, past
gutters babbling like mountain streams, and made a snail's progress
through that infernal night. Now and again a broad sheet of lightning
blazed athwart the darkness, showing the black and uneasy clouds
overhead, and giving a momentary glimpse of tall, ghostly towers, of
gabled roofs and pointed windows, and of houses that seemed to lean
forward and form arcades, below which the crooked, glistening streets
wound. As we were passing a large church--I found out later that it
was St. Croix--the bells began to sound compline, and then from every
steeple and spire in the city the chime was echoed, and borne across
the night in strange sweetness by the storm. My little guide made his
way bravely, and at length--it seemed an age--we reached the priory of
the Capuchins. Lights were burning everywhere, and there was a huge
log fire spluttering at the gate, which was still open. The arched
passage beyond the gate, which led to the forecourt, was full of men,
not hooded Capuchins, but men-at-arms, and it was easy to see that the
priory had been turned into a camp. I explained that I bore despatches
from Paris for M. de Montluc, and the words acted like magic. I was
told to leave my horse to the boy, and was led along the galleries that
bounded the cloisters of the forecourt. They were full of men, but all
orderly and quiet, as may be imagined with Montluc at hand. At length
we reached the hall, and there I was asked to wait until the General
was informed of my arrival. All dripping and wet as I was, and
unheeding the glances cast at me by those who were there, I sat down on
a bench near the fireplace, in which, on account of the damp, a fire
had been lit, and glowered into the flames, the blue smoke rising in
little columns from my drenched clothes. No one spoke to me, nor did I
address anyone, and I was struck by the extraordinary silence that was
preserved. Men spoke in whispers, and even when a man-at-arms passed,
his step was as light as that of a monk.

"Monsieur," said a voice, "will you have the goodness to follow me?"

I looked up, and saw an officer wearing the red and white sash of
Randan's Light Horse, my old comrades, and the sight of the colours
after so many years affected me to such a degre