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It was now about an hour after midnight, while Charles de
Martigne was yet awake, and writing in his bedchamber, that a
slight, distant sound met his ear—like the sudden closing of a
door in the lower part of the house, followed by a low, continuous
rustling, as if of a large body of men moving cautiously.

He paused for a moment, and listened intently--but nothing
more did he hear; and he began to think that the noise which
had disturbed him, had its origin in his own excited fancy. After
a few moments, thought, he became the more convinced of this;
since he perceived that the sentinel at his door was on the alert,
and moving to and fro; and he concluded that he must have heard
the sound in question, if there had been anything real in them.

He shook his head, and heaved a deep sigh, as he came to this
conclusion; for he thought that assuredly the gallant miller and
his stout adherents had either perished in the terrible explosion,
by which they had endeavored to secure their temporary safety, or
were immured, without hope of escape, in that narrow cavern, until
their enemies should take means to capture them.

At this moment, however, there came a sudden clang of the huge
castle bell—another, and another—a peal of loud and continuous
alarums! The next instant the sentinel at his door shouted, in
tones of vehement surprise and fear:

“Treason!—ho! treason! To arms! to arms! Ho! treason!”
A minute of deep silence followed, and then the rush of many

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feet passed through the corridors; and a slight clash of arms, as
the troopers fell into their ranks at the door of the guard-room,
was clearly audible.

Immediately he heard the high voice of M. de Roudun, exclaiming:
“What is this? what is this? where is the prisoner?”

And then his own room door was opened, and several of the
Catholic officers rushed in, half-dressed, but with their swords
drawn and their pistols in their hands.

“What does this mean, Monsieur de Martigne,” exclaimed
Achille, angrily. “I thought you pledged me your parole of honor
to hold no communication with any one without! What
means, then, this alarm?”

“Nay!” answered Charles, smiling scornfully; “I know nothing
about it. Your own sentinel can tell you, that I have never
left this chamber. I am sure none of my people have done it;
or, if they have, it is contrary to my orders!”

“Let us go see, then,” said M. de Roudun, having learned from
the soldier at the door that Charles indeed had not quitted the
room, nor seen any servant since he retired from the dinner-table
early in the evening. “Go with me, sir! keep close beside me!
and you, sirrah,” he continued, turning to the sentinel, “follow
Monsieur de Martigne with your carbine ready, and shoot him
through the head, if there be the least attempt at a rescue!
Your being fully dressed is against your innocence, my lord,” he
added.

“I have not lain down at all,” said Charles, pointing to his
bed, which was undisturbed. “These will vouch for my occupation:”
and he laid his hands upon the letters he had been employed
in writing. “It is not, methinks, very strange that a man
should wish to arrange his affairs, before he is carried off a prisoner
in this arbitrary manner.”

As he spoke thus, the alarum-bell, which had for a few moments
ceased to ring, and broke forth again with a rapid and impatient
clangor.

“That bell! that bell!” exclaimed M. de Roudun. “Look to
your arms, men! follow me close—there is treason here!”

And passing his arm through that of M. de Martigne's, he hurried

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him to the head of the great stairs, and rushed down the flight of
steps to the first landing, followed by his officers and seventy men,
completely armed and drawn up in close column; but as he
reached the landing of the grand marble staircase, with his troopers
close at his heels, and gained a view of the great hall, he started
back aghast; for, though the doors facing him were shut and
barred as usual on the inside, the whole of that magnificent apartment
was lined, on three sides, by a dense orderly array of well-armed
peasantry, drawn up four deep—the first rank kneeling, the
second stooping, the third and fourth erect—all with their muskets
levelled, awaiting but the word to fire.

Then, to complete his surprise, just as he started back, a door
was thrown open on each side of the corridor, by which he had
reached the stairs; and a strong party occupied the head of the
flight above him, covering his men with their levelled firearms;
and continuing to file off, right and left, until the whole of the
gallery was in like manner lined with a long range of glittering
barrels, each with a keen eye glancing over it on the devoted
troopers.

In the midst of the hall stood the gigantic form of Martin
Guerne, holding the rope of the alarum-bell in his left hand, by
which he had awakened that wild summons; but when he saw
that the garrison had been thus brought together, he stepped forward
and cried, in a jeering tone: “Good morrow! good morrow
to you, most noble Count de Roudun! It is my time to dictate the
terms now!”

But Achille, enraged at the frustration of his schemes, and
boiling with fury against his detested rival, shouted:

“You, at least—you, at least, maheutre—shall not profit by it.
Shoot me this rebel here! Level your arms—”

But louder than his voice, the deep ringing accents of the miller
filled the whole spacious hall.

“Observe the count,” he cried, “my merry men! When he
shall give the word, above and below, give your fire; and cease not
while one man of them is living! And you, sirs,” he added,
waving his hand toward the astonished troopers, “ground your
arms!”

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As if upon parade, the men obeyed his word; and simultaneously
the butts of their carbines clashed on the marble pavement.

“Dogs!” shouted M. de Roudun; “cowardly dogs! Yet think
not you shall laugh over your treason, Huguenot rebel!” and, as
he spoke, he snatched a pistol from Paul d'Armençon, and, levelling
it at M. de Martigne's head, drew the trigger.

The deadly tube was but too truly aimed; and as the flash was
seen, not one person in that crowded hall—no, not even Charles
himself—but was sure that his hour had arrived; but, at that very
point of time, M. d'Armençon perceiving what his leader was
about, took one quick step in advance, and struck the barrel up
just as Achille fired. The weapon was discharged, and fatally—
though he for whom the ball was intended stood unharmed and
unterrified; although the flame, so near to his head was the pistol
fired, actually singed the feather in his hat.

One of the peasants in the gallery, raised his hand with a quick
motion toward his head, and uttering a strange sound between a
cry and a groan, fell back into the arms of the man next behind him,
and was dead in a minute. But quick as light, quicker even than
the movement of D'Armençon, before he saw the result of the shot
or knew that Charles was saved, Martin Guerne tossed his heavy
carbine up to the level of his eye, and, without dwelling on his
aim the tenth part of a second, fired! Before almost the bullet
had departed on its mission, his loud voice was heard, commanding
his men to keep their places, and offering good quarters to all such
as should yield them quietly. Not one tone of that voice, however,
reached the ears of De Roudun: for as the sharp flash leaped from
the muzzle of the miller's piece, he fell to the pavement as a dead
man.

“So perish all,” cried Martin Guerne, “who point a weapon
against an unarmed captive! My lord of Martigne, you are at
liberty; and if you please to accompany Baptiste, here, he will
show you the way to one whom you love dearly, and who is anxiously
awaiting you. I will deal with these gentry in the meanwhile;
but waste no time, count—our work is not half done yet.
There! there! why do you not go with him?”

“I cannot think of moving, Martin,” replied the young

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nobleman, “until I have heard you assure these gentlemen of kind and
honorable treatment—nor then, even, unless they think fit to absolve
me from a promise, which I voluntarily gave them—that I
would not absent myself from the house until daybreak; it wants
some hours of that yet.”

“Why, do you think that I am going to eat them?” said the
miller. “No! no! we will treat them well—nay, more, we will
let them go about their business, if they will give their sacred
words of honor, as gentlemen, and soldiers, to bear arms no more
in this cause; but we will talk of that afterward. What is this,
now, about the promise?”

“Oh! that is nothing,” cried De la Roche and Paul d'Armen
çon, both in one breath. “In the first place, it was made to him
who now lies there, slain through his own perverseness—and,
therefore, has no obligation; and in the next place, it was void the
very moment he attempted your life, sir—the failure of the attempt
in no wise altering the consequence.”

“For which failure I have no one to thank but you, sir; for my
good friend, the miller's shot, would have come all too late to save
me,” answered De Martigne; “and I am sorry that he fired at all.
But you must pardon me; I understand the meaning of his words
and must begone. I will, however, return quickly; and, until
then, you have my word of honor for your safety.”

And joining Baptiste, with whom he whispered eagerly, as he
departed, he hurried down a lower flight of steps, conducting to
the offices and cellars. But Martin Guerne replied aloud, to his
regret that the shot had been fired, without noticing the latter part
of his speech at all:

“I am not, then—I am not sorry that I fired: he was a cursed
rascal! and had he been ten times the Count de Roudun, he should
have been put to death for shooting Antoine, yonder, after terms
had been offered him. I am not sorry, but the contrary; for it
was better done in the heat of anger, than in cold blood! Now,
gentlemen, I need not ask if you surrender, I fancy. Make your
men pile their arms, there where they stand, and march down
hither. For yourselves, give me your honor to be true prisoners,
rescue or no rescue, until Count Charles returns; and you may

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go back to bed, if you please, and finish your night's rest—which,
I think, would be the wisest way.”

“All this was speedily arranged—the officers plighting their
word, as they were called upon to do, but declining to accept the
miller's proposition, of going back to bed---D'Armençon saying
merrily, that the night's work had been commenced so cleverly,
that he should like to see the end of it.

“Well said---well said,” exclaimed the miller; “and now I
think of it you may be of some use too, and spare bloodshed. You
have got two outposts of twenty men each, one at the stables, the
other at the lodges, on the highroad. I am just going to send out
a hundred men against each; but if you and Count Henri de la
Roche will go out, with a couple of my men each, and order them
to lay down their arms; it will save trouble; and you know as well
as I do, that resistance is in vain.” And now, my men, some of
you take up that fellow's body and lay it on a bed, and let one or
two keep watch until there be time to bury it.”

A dozen of his followers ran forward to execute his bidding,
but, on raising the body of the count from the pavement, it was
found that he was yet living, the force of the miller's bullet having
been so far deadened by the frontlet of the young officer's steel
morion, that it had failed to penetrate the skull—on which it had,
however, inflicted a severe contusion, stunning him completely,
and depriving him for the time of all sense and motion.

This discovery produced, of course, an alteration in the mode
of his treatment; and, before Charles de Martigne's return, a chirurgeon
had examined the sufferer and pronounced that his life
was in no danger, although his recovery would be slow and tedious—
a result which was far more satisfactory to his rival than
would have been the death of one so closely connected with his
fair Isabel.

After a moment's conversation between themselves, the Catholie
nobles agreed to the miller's proposal, and were just setting
forth on their mission, when the clatter of a heavy squadron was
heard rapidly approaching, and a loud fanfare of trumpets.

“More friends! more friends!” shouted the miller. “Throw the
gates open; it is the Lord of Landavran, I fancy.”

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And so indeed it proved; and not he only, but the officers and
thirty-five dragoons of the Catholic troop, which had been dispatched
to take him prisoner, the others having been killed, or badly
wounded in the affair, which had resulted in the capture of the
party. Within half an hour, the other Huguenot lords came up
from Saint Aignan and Saint Erblon, each with a little squad of
horsemen; and the tenants of Charles De Martigne, pouring in
rapidly to the sound of the ban cloche, riders were soon found for
the horses, and wearers for the arms of De Roudun's cavalry—
one half of whom had been already taken with the loss of but two
lives, for D'Armençon and De la Roehe did honorably what they
had undertaken fairly; and before daybreak the two troops, who
had been posted at the mill, their egress from the glen being cut
off by a strong body of both foot and horse, and the cliffs lined
above their heads with musketry, laid down their arms upon terms
of fair rendition. Before De Martigne returned from the cavern
with his fair prize, the miller had evacuated the chateau, leaving a
guard of picked men only with the prisoners; and quartered his
men in the stables and out-buildings.

Words could not paint the ecstacy of Isabel, or the calm, peaceful
happiness of Charles de Martigne, at this so favorable termination
of what they deemed all their cares and trials. He did
not deem it wise, for the present, to speak of De Roudun's wound;
so that there was not a cloud to dim the happiness of the fair
bride, on that eventful might. The bride! yes; ere the sun rose,
justified in the eyes of all, both loving friends and honorable foes,
by the emergencies and perils of the time, Isabel of Issengeaux gave
her hand unto him, to whom her heart had been given long before.

And, although enemies and friends, captors and captives, were
mingled at the wedding feast; though Huguenot and Catholic sat
side by side at the well-furnished board, and a maheutre priest
asked a blessing on the meat; the wine-cup went round gayly,
and wit flashed fast from fluent lips, and not one guest refused the
pledge, when Charles de Martigne arose, and quaffed a brimming
cup to the good health of Martin Guerne---the Miller of Martigne!