ve you.' But
he had not the chance. One of Monseigneur's officers"--we learned
afterwards that it was Montesquieu, the captain of the Swiss
guard--"shot the Prince in the back of the head!"

"And killed him instantly?"

"He just had strength to say, 'Now I trust you are content!'" replied
the trooper, "and then he fell forward dead. They wrapped his body in a
sheet and carried it off the field, but I do not know where."

"There is no possible chance of your having been mistaken?"

"None, my lord."

The chaplain, stepping forward, led the trooper from the tent to give
him some food, and to bind up his wounds, while every one began
discussing the mournful story he had told. In the midst of the talk I
slipped out, eager to assure Felix of my safety, and to learn if Roger
Braund had returned.

No one in the camp thought of sleep or rest; the soldiers had gathered
together in knots, asking and answering questions, while from time to
time a single horseman, or half a dozen in a body, trailed wearily into
the lines. I met Felix coming toward the tent, and on seeing me he ran
forward hastily.

"Is it really you, Edmond?" he cried; "are you hurt? How came you to be
in the fight? One of the Englishmen told me you were there. 'Tis a sorry
beginning to the campaign, eh? But, after all, 'tis but one dark spot on
the sun. Come to our tent and tell us what has happened. There are a
thousand rumours."

"Is Roger Braund not with his comrades?" I asked.

"No; there are a good many of the English still missing, but their
friends are not anxious; they have lost their way perhaps, and we shall
see them in the morning."

As nothing could be done, I accompanied Felix to the tent, where a
number of our comrades speedily assembled. Felix gave me food, as I had
eaten nothing for hours, and then I related my story.

"On the plain of Jarnac!" exclaimed one in surprise; "what was the
Prince doing there?"

"I cannot say. Remember, I came upon them by mere chance."

"'Twas stupid folly!" exclaimed the speaker. "We aren't so strong that
we can afford to divide our forces. Conde's rashness will ruin
everything. One would think he was a hot-headed boy!"

"If Conde was in fault, he has paid dearly for his mistake," I remarked,
and was greeted by cries of "What do you mean?" "Is the Prince hurt?"
"Is he a prisoner?" "Speak out, Le Blanc!"

"The Prince, gentlemen," I replied slowly, "is dead; and if my account
be true, most foully murde