Père Colombean locked perplexity, thinking perhape that sen might be a promising silver, if there were only time to work in sing wi Berenger quitted the ejes a sort asking the distanse to Logit

"A full day's junej,' anv Père Colombeau, and added 1 an sorry you are indeed a Hug was what I feared last n feared to add to your pied

are not permitted to deliver up to Huguenot relation."

"I am her father!" exceed renger, indignantly.

"That goes for nothing, accoring w the rules of the Church,” tuck the quest "The Church cannot yield LEI CALONE to heresy."

"But we in England are no Cl vinists," cried Berenger. We are wh like your Huguenots.'

"The Church would make Lo o fer ence," said the priest

Berenger struck his own for woud, bus was about to utter a fou in estils.

- ST. E

1.

TI

*.....

by this time Berenger was reeling in his saddle, and he presently became so faint and dizzy, that Philip and Humfrey were obliged to lift him from his horse, and lay him under an elm-tree that stood a little back from the road.

"Look up, sir, it is but a league further," quoth Humfrey, "I can see the roof of the big Church they call Notre-Dame."

"He does not open his eyes, he is swooning," said Philip. "He must have some cordial, ere he can sit his horse. Can you think of no place where we could get a drop of wine or strong waters?"

"Not I, Master Philip. We passed a convent wall but now, but 'twas a nunnery, as good as a grave against poor travellers. I would ride on, and get some of Sir Francis's folk to bring a litter or coach, but I doubt me if I could get past the barrier without my young Lord's safe-conduct."

Berenger, hearing all, here made an effort to raise himself, but sank back against Philip's shoulder. Just then, a trampling and lumbering became audible, and on the road behind appeared first three horsemen riding abreast, streaming with black and white ribbons; then eight pair of black horses, a man walking at the crested heads of each couple, and behind these a coach, shaped like an urn reversed, and with a coronet on the top, silvered, while the vehicle itself was, melon-like, fluted, alternately black, with silver figures, and white with black landscapes, and with white draperies, embroidered with black and silver, floating from the windows. Four lacqueys, in the same magpie-colouring, stood behind, and outriders followed; but as the cavalcade approached the group by the road-side, one of the horsemen paused, saying lightly, "Over near the walls for an affair of honour? Has he caught it badly? Who was the other?"

Ere Guibert could answer, the curtains were thrust aside, the coach stopped, a lady's head and hand appeared, and a female voice exclaimed, in much alarm, "Halt! Ho, you there, in our

colours, come here.

What is it? My

brother here? Is he wounded?"

"It is no wound, madame," said Guibert, shoved forward by his English comrades, "it is M. le Baron de Ribaumont who is taken ill, and-ah! here is Monsieur Philippe."

For Philip, seeing a thick black veil put back from the face of the most beautiful lady who had ever appeared to him, stepped forward, hat in hand, as she exclaimed, "Le Baron de Ribaumont! Can it be true? What means this? What ails him?"

"It is his wound, madame," said Philip, in his best French; "it has broken out again, and he has almost dropped from his horse from défaillance."

"Ah, bring him here-lay him on the cushions, we will have the honour of transporting him," cried the lady; and, regardless of the wet road, she sprang out of the coach, with her essences in her hand, followed by at least three women, two pages, and two little white dogs which ran barking towards the prostrate figure, but were caught up by their pages. "Ah, cousin, how dreadful," she cried, as she knelt down beside him, and held her essences towards him. Voice and scent revived him, and with a bewildered look and gesture half of thanks, half of refusal, he gazed round him, then rose to his feet without assistance, bent his head, and making a sign that he was unable to speak, turned towards his horse.

"Cousin, cousin," exclaimed the lady, in whose fine black eyes tears were standing, "you will let me take you into the city-you cannot refuse."

"Berry, indeed, you cannot ride," entreated Philip; "you must take her offer. Are you getting crazed at last?"

Berenger had hesitated for a moment, but he felt himself again dizzy; the exertion of springing into his saddle was quite beyond him, and bending his head he submitted passively to be helped into the black and white coach. Humfrey, however, clutched Philip's arm, and said impressively, "Have a care, sir, this is no other than the fine lady, sister to the murderous villain that set

upon him. If you would save his life, don't quit him, nor let her take him elsewhere than to our Ambassador's. I'll not leave the coach-door, and as soon as we are past the barriers, I'll send Jack Smithers to make known we are coming.'

Philip, without further ceremony, followed the lady into the coach, where he found her insisting that Berenger, who had sunk back in a corner, should lay his length of limb, muddy boots and all, upon the white velvet cushions, richly worked in black and silver, with devices and mottoes, in which the crescent moon, and eclipsed or setting suns, made a great figure. The original inmates seemed to have disposed of themselves in various nooks of the ample conveyance, and Philip, rather at a loss to explain his intrusion, perched himself awkwardly on the edge of the cushions in front of his brother, thinking that Humfrey was an officious, suspicious fellow, to distrust this lovely lady, who seemed so exceedingly shocked and grieved at Berenger's condition. "Ah! I never guessed it had been so frightful as this. I should not have known him. Ah! had I imagined

She leant back, covered her face, and wept, as one overpowered; then, after a few seconds, she bent forward, and would have taken the hand that hung listlessly down, but it was at once withdrawn, and folded with the other on his breast. "Can you be more at ease? Do you suffer much," she asked, with sympathy and tenderness that went to Philip's heart, and he explained. "He cannot speak, madame, the shot in his cheek" (the lady shuddered, and put her handkerchief to her eyes)" from time to time causes this horrible swelling and torture.

After that he will be better." "Frightful, frightful," she sighed, "but we will do our best to make up. You, sir, must be his trucheman."

Philip, not catching the last word, and wondering what kind of man that might be, made answer, "I am his brother, madame."

"Eh! Monsieur son frère. Has

Madame sa mère a son so old?"

"I am Philip Thistlewood, her hus

band's son, at your service, madame," said Philip, colouring up to the ears; "I came with him, for he is too weak to be alone."

"Great confidence must be reposed in you, sir," she said, with a not unflattering surprise. "But whence are you come? I little looked to see Monsieur here."

"We came from Anjou, madame. We went to La Sablerie," and he broke off. Ah! let us say no

"I understand.

more ! It rends the heart," and again she wiped away a tear. "And now--' "We are coming to the Ambassador's to obtain "-he stopped, for Berenger gave him a touch of peremptory warning, but the lady saved his embarrassment by exclaiming that she could not let her dear cousin go to the Ambassador's when he was among his own kindred. Perhaps Monsieur did not know her; she must present herself as Madame de Selinville, née de Ribaumont, a poor cousin of ce cher Baron, "and even a little to you, M. le frère, if you will own me," and she held out a hand, which he ought to have kissed, but not knowing how, he only shook it. She further explained that her brother was at Cracow with Monsieur, now King of Poland, but that her father lived with her at her hotel, and would be enchanted to see his dear cousin, only that he, like herself, would be desolated at the effects of that most miser

able of errors. She had been returning from her Advent retreat at a convent, where she had been praying for the soul of the late M. de Selinville, when a true Providence had made her remark the colours of her family. And now, nothing would serve her, but that this dear Baron should be carried at once to their hotel, which was much nearer than that of the Ambassador, and where every comfort should await him. She clasped her hands in earnest entreaty, and Philip, greatly touched by her kindness, and perceiving that every jolt of the splendid but springless vehicle caused Berenger's head a shoot of anguish, was almost acceding to her offer, when he was checked by one of

the most imperative of those silent negatives. Hitherto, Master Thistlewood had been rather proud of his bad French, and as long as he could be understood, considered trampling on genders, tenses, and moods, as a manful assertion of Englishry, but he would just now have given a great deal for the command of any language but a horseboy's, to use to this beautiful gracious personage. "Merci, madame, nous ne fallons pas, nous avons passé notre parole d'aller droit à l'Ambassadeur's et pas où else," did not sound very right to his ears; he coloured up to the roots of his hair, and knew that if Berry had had a smile left in him, poor fellow, he would have smiled now. But this most charming and polite of Ladies never betrayed it, if it were ever such bad French, she only bowed her head, and said something very pretty, -if only he could make it outof being the slave of one's word, and went on persuading. Nor did it make the conversation easier, that she inquired after Berenger, and mourned over his injuries as if he were unconscious, while Philip knew, nay, was reminded every instant, that he was aware of all that was passing, most anxious that as little as possible should be said, and determined against being taken to her hotel. So unreasonable a prejudice did this seem to Philip, that had it not been for Humfrey's words, he would have doubted whether, in spite of all his bleeding, his brother's brain were not wandering.

However, what with Humfrey without, and Berenger within, the turn to the Ambassador's hotel was duly taken, and in process of time a hearty greeting passed between Humfrey and the porter; and by the time the carriage drew up, half the household were assembled on the steps, including Sir Francis himself, who had already heard more than a fortnight back from Lord Walwyn, and had become nneasy at the non-arrival of his two young guests. On Smithers's appearance, all had been made ready, and as Berenger, with feeble, tardy, movements, made courteous gestures of

thanks to the lady, and alighted from the coach, he was absolutely received into the dignified arms of the Ambassador. "Welcome, my poor lad, I am glad to see you here again, though in such different guise. Your chamber is ready for you, and I have sent my secretary to see if Maître Paré be at home, so we will, with God's help, have you better at ease anon."

Even Philip's fascination by Madame de Selinville could not hold out against the comfort of hearing English voices all round him, and of seeing his brother's anxious brow expand, and his hand and eyes return no constrained thanks. Civilities were exchanged on both sides; the Ambassador thanked the lady for the assistance she had rendered to his young friend and guest; she answered with a shade of stiffness, that she left her kinsman in good hands, and said she should send to inquire that evening, and her father would call on the morrow; then, as Lady Walsingham did not ask her in, the black and white coach drove away.

The lady threw herself back in one corner, covered her face, and spoke no word. Her coach pursued its way through the streets, and turned at length into another great court-yard, surrounded with buildings, where she alighted, and stepped across a wide but dirty hall, where ranks of servants stood up and bowed as she passed; then she ascended a wide carved staircase, opened a small private door, and entered a tiny wainscotted room, hardly large enough. for her farthingale to turn round in. "You, Véronique, come in-only you," she said, at the door; and a waiting woman, who had been in the carriage, obeyed, no longer clad in the Angevin costume, but in the richer and less characteristic dress of the ordinary Parisian femme de chambre.

"Undo my mantle in haste!" gasped Madame de Selinville. "O Véronique -you saw-what destruction !"

"Ah! if my sweet young lady had only known how frightful he had become, she had never sacrificed herself," sighed Véronique.

Frightful! What with the grave blue eyes that seem like the steady avenging judgment of St. Michael in his triumph in the picture at the Louvre," murmured Madame de Selinville; then she added quickly, "Yes, yes, it is well. She and you, Véronique, may see him. frightful and welcome. There are other eyes make haste, girl. There-another handkerchief. Follow me not."

And Madame de Selinville moved out of the room, past the great state bedroom and the salle beyond, to another chamber where more servants waited and rose at her entrance.

"Is any one with my father?" "No, madame ;" and a page knocking, opened the door and announced, "Madame la Comtesse."

The Chevalier, in easy deshabille, with a flask of good wine, iced water, and delicate cakes and confitures before him, a witty and licentious epigrammatic poem close under his hand, sat lazily enjoying the luxuries that it had been his daughter's satisfaction to procure for him ever since her marriage. He sprang up to meet her with a grace and deference that showed how different a person was the Comtesse de Selinville from Diane de Ribaumont.

"Ah! ma belle, my sweet," as there was a mutual kissing of hands, "thou art returned. Had I known thine hour I had gone down for thy first embrace. But thou lookest fair, my child, the convent has made thee lovelier than ever."

"Father, who think you is here? It is he-the Baron."

"The Baron; who, what Baron ?" "What Baron? Eh, father!" she cried, impetuously. "Who could it be but one?"

father, he is very ill, he suffers terribly. Oh, Narcisse! Ah! may I never see him again!"

"But what brings him blundering here again?" exclaimed the Chevalier. "Speak intelligibly, child! I thought we had guarded against that! He knows nothing of the survivance."

"I cannot tell much. He could not open his mouth, and his half-brother, a big dull English boy, stammered out a few words of shocking French against his will. But I believe they had heard of la pauvre petite at La Sablerie, came over for her, and finding the ruin my brother makes wherever he goes, are returning seeking intelligence and succour for him."

"That may be," said the Chevalier, thoughtfully. "It is well thy brother is in Poland. I would not see him suffer any more; and we may get him back to England ere my son learns that he is here."

66

him

Father, there is a better way! Give my hand."

"Eh quoi, child; if thou art tired of devotion, there are a thousand better marriages."

"No, father, none so good for this family. See, I bring him all-all that I was sold for. As the price of that, he resigns for ever all his claims to the ancestral castle-to La Leurre, and above all, that claim to Nid-de-Merle as Eustacie's widower, which, should he ever discover the original contract, will lead to endless warfare."

"His marriage with Eustacie was annulled. Yet-yet there might be doubts. There was the protest; and who knows whether they formally renewed their vows when so much went wrong at Montpipeau. Child, it is a horrible perplexity. I often could wish we had had no warning, and the poor things had made off together. We could have cried shame till we forced out a provision for thy brother; and my poor pretty little EustacieHe had tears in his eyes as he broke off.

Diane made an impatient gesture. "She would have died of tedium in England, or broken forth so as to have a true scandal. That is all over, father,

M