Come inside.

M.de Chatillard wishes to see you." Willet, Robert, Tayoga and Zeb Crane went in, and were shown into the bedroom where the Seigneur Louis Henri Anatole de Chatillard, past ninety years of age, lay upon his last bed.

He was a large, handsome old man, fair like so many of the Northern French, and his dying eyes were full of fire.

Two women of middle years, his granddaughters, knelt weeping by each side of his bed, and two servants, tears on their faces, stood at the foot.

Willet and his comrades halted respectfully at the door.
"Step closer," said the old man, "that I may see you well." The four entered and stood within the light shed by two tall candles.
The old man gazed at them a long time in silence, but finally he said: "And so the English have come at last." "We're not English, M.de Chatillard," said Willet, "we're Americans, Bostonnais, as you call us." "It is the same.