It was a fine July evening, about seven o'clock.

The old Marquis had been wheeled in his easy chair out of the house, to the top of the broad steps which led from the back of the chateau into the garden.

Agatha was sitting at his feet on the top step, reading to him, and the little Chevalier Mondyon, who retained no semblance of the soldier about his person, except the red scarf round his waist, was seated straddle-legged atop of one of the huge white lions which guarded the entrance.
"Agatha, I hear horsemen," said the boy, jumping off his seat.
"There--there--quite plain!" "It is Henri and Charles coming from Clisson," said Agatha.
"If it be, they have a troop of cavalry with them," said the Chevalier.
"Perhaps it's the Prince de Talmont, for I think they have not so many horsemen with them in the south," and the little Chevalier ran out to greet, as he thought, his gallant friends.
"Whoever they be, Agatha," said the old Marquis, "give them a warm welcome if they come in the King's name.

They will know that I cannot rise to meet them, but make them welcome to everything in and about the chateau." Agatha had closed her book, and was rising to execute her father's wishes, when Momont, the grey-haired butler, hurrying round from the kitchen-door as fast his old legs would carry him, screamed out: "The blues! the blues!" Agatha, who was in the act of entering the house as she heard the fearful cry, turned instantly back to her father's side.

She was deadly pale, but she spoke not a word.