I was in a painful quandary. Did Labrouk mean that the countersign was “Jesu,” or was that word the broken prayer of his soul as it hurried forth? So strange a countersign I had never heard, and yet it might be used in this Catholic country. This day might be some great feast of the Church--possibly that of the naming of Christ (which was the case, as I afterwards knew). I rode on, tossed about in my mind. So much hung on this. If I could not give the countersign, I should have to fight my way back again the road I came. But I must try my luck. So I went on, beating up my heart to confidence; and now I came to the St. Louis Gate. A tiny fire was burning near, and two sentinels stepped forward as I rode boldly on the entrance.
“France,” was my reply, in a voice as like the peasant’s as possible.
“Advance and give the countersign,” came the demand.
Another voice called from the darkness of the wall: “Come and drink, comrade; I’ve a brother with Bougainville.”
“Jesu,” said I to the sentinel, answering his demand for the countersign, and I spurred on my horse idly, though my heart was thumping hard, for there were several sturdy fellows lying beyond the dull handful of fire.
Instantly the sentinel’s hand came to my bridle-rein. “Halt!” roared he.
Surely some good spirit was with me then to prompt me, for, with a careless laugh, as though I had not before finished the countersign, “Christ,” I added--“Jesu Christ!”
With an oath the soldier let go the bridle-rein, the other opened the gates, and I passed through. I heard the first fellow swearing roundly to the others that he would “send yon courier to fires of hell, if he played with him again so.”
The gates closed behind me, and I was in the town which had seen the worst days and best moments of my life. I rode along at a trot, and once again beyond the citadel was summoned by a sentinel. Safely passed on, I came down towards the Chateau St. Louis. I rode boldly up to the great entrance door, and handed the packet to the sentinel.
“Look in the corner,” said I. “And what business is’t of yours?”
“There is no word in the corner,” answered he doggedly. “Is’t from Monsieur le General at Cap Rouge?”
“Bah! Did you think it was from an English wolf?” I asked.