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When I think these villains are burning my oak door with my own firewood!” He said this with heaviness in his voice, but then Coulondre always sounded sad, being so taciturn by nature and lugubrious of tone—despite the fact that he’d done all right for himself, was well paid for keeping our mill and our swine, and, though already grey, married to a strong and handsome young woman who took good care of him.
    “Don’t worry, Coulondre,” soothed my father, who held him in great affection. “Don’t worry! Don’t cry over your door. At Mespech I’ve got plenty of seasoned oak and finely cut! I’ll tell Faujanet to make you a new door, even stronger than this one and braced with iron!”
    “Thank God and thank you, my master!” replied Coulondre, who’d only complained so that he’d be promised a new door. And howevermuch his grey eyes retained their usual sad expression, I thought I could see a hint of a smile behind them. And I felt secretly happy as well, not only to be here, however much my heart was pounding, beside my father and my brother Samson, not just because it recalled our struggle in la Lendrevie when we took on the butcher-baron, but because this battle looked to be ours, since the villains thought the mill was unguarded and that the miller was, as he always was on Sunday nights, away at Mespech, Coulondre having been careful to make no sound when they had begun their attack.
    “Pierre,” my father whispered, “I know how brave you are but don’t be foolhardy. When you’ve fired your pistols, I want you to duck out of sight. There’s no shame in taking cover.”
    “Father,” I replied, deeply touched by his great love, “don’t worry! I’ve learnt my lesson. Caution, prudence and patience are the teats of adventure.”
    My father laughed at this, but his laugh was as silent as a carp and I, having received such excellent advice, decided that the best thing I could do would be to pass along some good advice to my brother. I elbowed him softly and whispered:
    “My brother, remember, I beg you, not to be so slow in firing as you were in the battle in la Lendrevie and when we fought the highwaymen in the Corbières.”
    “I promith, Pierre,” he lisped, and as he spoke the door of the mill burst into flames, illuminating his beautiful face, and I couldn’t resist throwing my arms about him and embracing him, which elicited a bit of a smile from my father.
    “What an incredible force, two brothers who love each other as you do!” he said quietly, his eyes still fixed on the door in flames. “It’s the same with Sauveterre and me: no one has ever been able to defeat us, and no less so, as you’ll soon see, than this dog Fontenac! My brothers in arms, God keep you! Here we go, I believe!”
    When you think about how long it takes a beautiful oak to grow, it’s a pity that it can burn as quickly as this poor door did—and all the more pity that it took so much careful artistry to fashion it. My Huguenot heart bled to see such a waste of this handsome and well-crafted portal—not to mention the massacre these villains would have wreaked on our pigs, our grains and our mill if they’d been able. The bitterness of these thoughts sharpened my anger against these miscreants and eradicated any compassion I might have felt. Clutching my pistols in both hands, I wanted only to dispatch them quickly.
    Meanwhile, the fire burned so hot that the iron hinges gave way and a few blows from a sledgehammer and a battering ram finished it off. They’d soon dragged it outside and now had their way clear. And clear they no doubt believed it was, and the house empty, for they crowded inside, as one might say, as grains into a mill, torches in hand, as if they wanted to set fire to everything inside, and our pigs set up an even more deafening wail of squealing.
    “God with us!” shouted my father in a stentorian voice. And rushing out from behind our sacks we let out screams that would have unstopped