Monsieur LaMotte took a spyglass from his saddle-bag, climbed halfway up the tree, and made observations. "I see the colors of a field-marshal; the big ship, there, third from the lead, she is carrying the new French commander..." then all the air went out of him in a long sigh, like bagpipes collapsing, and he said nothing for a minute or so, not because he had nothing to say but because he was the sort of fellow who did not like to utter as much as a word until he had made himself master of his emotions. "It is the butcher of Savoy," he said in French to another Huguenot who was standing under the tree.