marshland, where the wholesome sea turned stagnant, La Rochelle
itself scowled through the heavy air, the dark ramparts still rising
higher around its dark townsfolk:--La Rochelle, the "Bastion of the
Gospel" according to John Calvin, the conceded capital of the
Huguenots. They were there, and would not leave it, even to share
the festivities of the marriage of King Charles to his little
Austrian Elizabeth about this time--the armed chiefs of
Protestantism, dreaming of a "dictator" after the Roman manner, who
should set up a religious republic. Serried closely together on
land, they had a strange mixed following on the sea. Lair of
heretics, or shelter of martyrs, La Rochelle was ready to protect the
outlaw. The corsair, of course, would be a Protestant, actually
armed perhaps by sour old Jeanne of Navarre--the ship he fell across,
of course, Spanish. A real Spanish ship of war, gay, magnificent,
was gliding even then, stealthily, through the distant haze; and
nearer lay what there was of a French navy. Did the enigmatic
"Admiral," the coming dictator, Coligni, really wish to turn it to
foreign adventure, in rivalry of Spain, as the proper patriotic
outcome of this period, or breathing-space, of peace and national
unity?

Undoubtedly they were still there, even in this halcyon weather,
those causes of disquiet, like the volcanic forces beneath the
massive [82] chestnut-woods, spread so calmly through the breathless
air, on the ledges and levels of the red heights of the Limousin,
under which Gaston now passed on his way southwards. On his right
hand a broad, lightly diversified expanse of vineyard, of towns and
towers innumerable, rolled its burden of fat things down the slope of
the Gironde towards the more perfect level beyond. In the heady
afternoon an indescribable softness laid hold on him, from the