Volume 3 — CHAP. VII.

CHAP. VII.

In the gardens of the Château by the banks of the Charente; which the Abbé de Boisguerin had left to return to Gaspar de Montsoreau, and in an arbour which had been constructed, as is still ordinary with the people of that country, by a number of vines entwined over a light trellis work; with a soft and beautiful scene before her eyes, and the autumn sunshine gilding the glowing waters, Marie de Clairvaut sat and wept, with the note from the Abbé which had conveyed to her the bitterest tidings she ever had received on earth open in her hand. A day had passed since the events just recorded had taken place, and she had now received the news many hours, but her grief had not in the least subsided; and to herself it even seemed greater than it had been at first. Her whole thoughts at first had been bent upon the one painful fact, that he whom she had loved with all the fervour, and the depth, and the devotion of a heart that had never loved before, was lost to her for ever; that she should never behold again that frank and candid countenance, beaming with looks of deep and indubitable affection; that she should never again see those eyes poring into hers with the intense gaze of love, and seeming at once to give and receive fresh light; that she should never hear the tones of that musical voice, which had so often assured her of protection and support; that she should never cling to that arm, which had so often brought her rescue and deliverance in the moment of danger. Then, she had felt only that he was lost and gone, cut off in the brightness of his days, in the glory and strength of his youth, in the full blossom of his hopes, and ere he had yet more than lifted to his lips the cup, which, offered to him by honour, virtue, and sincerity, ought to have been a sweet one indeed.

Now, however, there had grown upon her mind feelings indeed more selfish, but which were the natural consequences of her situation, and connected intimately with the loss of him she loved. A feeling of desolation had come over her--of utter loneliness in all the world. It seemed as if she had never loved or esteemed or clung to any but himself; as if there were no one to protect her, to guide, support, direct, or cheer her upon earth; as if life's youth were over, the fortune of existence spent like a prodigal, the heart's treasury empty, and nothing left for the immortal spirit on this side the grave but penury of every rich and noble feeling, lone solitude and petty cares, and all the dull anxieties of a being without an object.

Desolate, desolate indeed, did she feel: and well too might she feel desolate! for though her grief did some wrong to many who loved her as friends and relations, and would have done much to aid and support her; yet, oh! what is such love and esteem? what is aid and support wrung from the midst of hours devoted to other things, and thoughts and feelings centered upon other objects, when compared with the entire devotion, the pure, single love of an upright, an honourable, and a feeling heart--where the being loved is the great end and object of every thought and every action--where all the feelings of the spirit are hovering by day round that one object, and guarding it like angels through the watches of the night? Oh yes, she was lonely, she was desolate, she was unprotected and unsupported, when she compared the present with the past! Well might she think so; well might she grieve and mourn over her own deprivation, when she wept for him and for his early end!

Some comfort, perhaps, had been indeed afforded her by the change which had taken place in the demeanour of the Abbé de Boisguerin. She could never love him; she could never like him: his society could never even become tolerable to her: but yet it was no slight satisfaction to find that she was no more to hear words which she considered as little less than sacrilegious, or to endure the eager passion in his eye, and hear him dare to talk to her of love. She looked upon him as her gaoler indeed, though he often denied that he had power to liberate her; but yet she felt that peace and comfort at least depended much upon that gaoler's will, and was not a little pleased to find that during the three or four last visits which he had paid, no word which could offend her had been spoken, no tone or even look that she could take amiss was to be seen, though a certain tenderness and melancholy seemed to have fallen upon him, which she could well have wished removed, or not so openly displayed.

During the very morning of which we are now speaking, he had come there again, and his conduct towards her had been all that she could have desired. He had not spoken directly of the cause of the deep grief which he saw his intelligence of the former day had brought upon her, but all his words were chosen so as to harmonise with that grief; and the object of his visit itself, as he expressed it, was only to see whether he could do any thing to console her, or to alleviate the sorrow under which she laboured. She had thanked him for his courtesy and kindness; but, ere he had left her, he said with a tone of what seemed real regret, that he was sorry to say his own visit would be followed by another, which he feared might, in some degree, importune her.

"The young Marquis of Montsoreau," he added, "will be restrained no longer from seeing you; and you know, Madam, it is impossible for me to prevent him, which I would willingly have done, especially as the view he takes of the recent most lamentable event is not likely to do aught but give you pain."

"Oh, cannot you stay him?" exclaimed Marie de Clairvaut. "Cannot you stay him at this terrible moment, when the very sight of him will be horrible to me?"

"I fear not indeed. Lady," replied the Abbé. "I would have given my right hand to prevent his coming, but he seemed perfectly determined. However, when I return, I will do my best once more, in the hope that he may yet be moved." And after a visit very much shorter than usual, he had taken his leave and departed.

The fair girl he left had gone out into the gardens, as we have seen, once more to weep alone over the sad and painful situation in which she was placed, and over the dark and irreparable loss which she had sustained; but ere she had gone out, she had taken the only precaution in her power to insure that her solitude would remain inviolate, directing the servants--who acted indeed the part of turnkeys--if the Marquis of Montsoreau applied to see her, to state at once that she was not well enough to receive him, and wished to pass some days alone and in tranquillity.

She wept long and bitterly; but in about an hour after she had gone out, the sound of horses' feet reached her ear, and voices speaking at the gateway made themselves heard. She could distinguish even the tones of the young Marquis, and indistinctly the words of the servant in reply. But Gaspar of Montsoreau was hurt and offended by the message she had left, and a certain inclination to tyranny in his disposition broke forth with his usual impetuosity.

"Inform Mademoiselle de Clairvaut," he said, "who it is that desires to see her, and let me have an answer quick. Say that I much wish for a few minutes' conversation with her. What, fellow! Would you shut the gates upon me like a horseboy? Get ye gone and return quickly. I will walk in the gardens till you come back." And striding in he threw the gate violently to, and advanced directly to the water's side, as if he could have divined that the object of his search was there.

Marie de Clairvaut was indignant, and that feeling for a moment enabled her to throw off the overwhelming load of grief. Rising at once she came forth, and crossed the green slope towards the château, passing directly by Gaspar of Montsoreau as she did so, and intending merely to bow her head by way of salutation. He placed himself in such a manner, however, that she could not pass on, although he must have seen the tears fresh upon her cheeks, and her indignation was more roused than before.

"I directed the servant, sir," she said, when forced to pause, "to inform you, if you came, that I was not well enough to see you; and that I wished for solitude and tranquillity."

"Nay, indeed, dear Lady," said the young Marquis, conquering the feelings of anger with which he had entered, and speaking with a calm and tender tone, "I thought, if you knew that I was here, pity, if nothing else, would induce you to see, but for a few moments, one who has languished for weeks and months for a single glance of your eyes--one who so deeply, so tenderly, so devotedly, loves you."

Those words sounded harsh, painful, and insulting to the ears of Marie de Clairvaut--words which, from the lips of him she loved, would have been all joy and sweetness, but were now abhorrent to her ear; and looking at him sternly, with her bright eye no longer dimmed, though her lip quivered, she said, "Never let me hear such words again, sir!--I beg that you would let me pass!--Marquis of Montsoreau, this is cruel and ungentlemanly! Learn that I look upon myself as your brother's widow, and ever shall so look upon myself till my dying day." And thus saying she passed him, and entered the house.

She listened eagerly for the sound of horses' feet after she had entered her own apartments, and was very soon satisfied that the young Marquis had gone back. As soon as she was assured of this, she once more went out into the open grounds--for the load of grief ever makes the air of human dwellings feel oppressive; and again going down to the bank of the river, she gazed upon its tranquil current as she walked by the side; and though her sorrow certainly found no relief, yet the sight of the waters flowing beneath her eyes, calm, tranquil, incessant, led, as it were, her thoughts along with them. They became less agitated, though still as deep and powerful; they seemed to imitate the course of the river, running on incessantly in the same dark stream, but in quiet and in silence. The tears indeed would, from time to time, rise into her eyes and roll over her cheeks, but no sob accompanied them; and though a sigh often broke from her lip, it was the sigh of deep, calm despair, not of struggling pain.

It is wonderful how, when we are in deep grief, the ordinary sounds and sights of joyous nature strike harsh and inharmonious upon us. Things that would pass by unheard at other times, as amongst the smaller tones in the great general concert of the day, then become painfully acute. The lark that sung up in the sky above her head, made no pleasant melody for her ear; a country boy crossing the opposite fields, and whistling as he went, pained her so much, and made her gentle heart feel so harsh towards him, that she schooled herself for such sensations, saying, "He cannot tell that I am so sorrowful! He cannot tell that the sounds which I once was fond of, are now the most distasteful to me."

A minute or two after a few notes upon a pipe were played immediately beneath the garden wall--a little sort of prelude, to see that the instrument was clear; and unable to endure it longer, Marie de Clairvaut turned to seek shelter in her prison.

Ere she had taken three steps, however, she paused. The air was not one of the country; a finer hand, too, a more exquisite taste than France could produce woke the instrument into sounds most musical, and in a moment after, she recognised the sweet air which she had twice before heard, and both times from the lips of Charles of Montsoreau.

The memory of the first time that it had met her ear was sweet and delightful; but the memory of the second time was as the memory of hope; and, in despite of all, it woke again the feelings it had awakened before; and an indistinct feeling of glad expectation came across her mind, like a golden sunbeam, shining through the mist of an autumnal morning. What was it she hoped? what was it she expected? She knew not herself; but still there was an indistinct brightening came over her heart, and feelings; and when the air was over, instead of flying from the music, she listened eagerly for its renewal.

The pipe, however, sounded not again; but in a moment after she heard some one say, "Hark!" and the sweetest possible voice began to sing:--

SONG.

Weep not, Lady, weep not,

Grief shall pass away;

Angels' eyes that sleep not

Watch thee on thy way.

Heavenly hands are twining

Garlands of glad flowers.

Joy and Hope combining

Wreath thy future hours.

Diff'rent powers are near thee--

Bright Hope, dark Despair;

Let the Goddess cheer thee--

Fly the Fiend of Care.

Son of Sin and Sorrow

Despair by earth was given;

Child of the bright to-morrow,

Hope was born of Heaven.

What could it mean? Marie de Clairvaut asked herself. The words seemed directly addressed to her, and applicable to her own situation: yet the voice, as far as she could judge, she had never heard before. But still every note, every word, appeared to counsel hope. "Can I have been deceived?" she thought. "Can the Abbé de Boisguerin and Gaspar de Montsoreau have combined for their own dark purposes to cheat me, to induce me to believe that the one I love so well is dead?"

But, alas no! The Abbé had left, inclosed in his own, the brief note which he had received from Paris, announcing the event, and that note bore every appearance of being an ordinary matter of business, passing regularly through the post-office of the capital. Could the song that she had heard, she asked herself, again--could it have been accidental; could it have been sung at that moment through one of those strange combinations, which sometimes arise out of entirely indifferent circumstances, to give zest to our joy, or poignancy to our sorrow? She determined, if possible, to ascertain; and raising her voice a little above its ordinary tone, she said, "Who is there? To whom do you sing?"

She did not seem to have made herself heard, however, for a moment after the same voice demanded, "Is there any one that listens?"

"Yes, yes!" she exclaimed, eagerly, "I listen; speak on!"

"Well then, hearken," said the voice, and again a new air and a new song began.

SONG.

He goes away to a far distant land, With cross on his shoulder and lance in his hand; And news soon comes how his lightning brand

Has scattered the hosts of paninrie.

His beautiful Lady sits weeping and lone, And wishes she were where her Knight has gone; But she grieves not his absence with angry moan,

For her spirit is full of his chivalry.

But what are the tidings come next to her ear? Oh! tidings dark and heavy to hear; How her fearless warrior, her husband dear,

Has fallen 'neath the lance of the Moslema.

How, gallantly staking his life, to save From infidel hands, the Redeemer's grave, He has fought for the righteous and sleeps with the brave,

'Neath the walls of Hierosolima!

'Tis true, oh, 'tis true!--yet she will not believe, "Ah, no! e'en in dying he would not deceive; And he promised, if spirit such power could receive,

And he fell in his holy chivalry.

To visit my side in the watches of night, To comfort my heart, and to gladden my sight, And call me to join him in countries of light,

And dwell in his breast through eternity."

Years pass; and he comes not. Nor yet she believes! 'Tis his absence, but 'tis not his death that she grieves. Hope strong in affection, her heart still deceives,

Lo! she watches yon Palmer how eagerly,

To ask him some tidings of Syria to say-- But what is thy magic, oh, thou Palmer gray? She is clasped in his arms! she has fainted away!

And he kisses her fair cheek how tenderly.

As the song had gone on, Marie de Clairvaut could no longer doubt that, though allegorical, those words were applicable to herself. Joy--joy beyond all conception took the place of grief; all that she had suffered, all that she had endured in the past, she now felt, indeed, to be nothing to what she had lately undergone. But the extatic delight which the last words of that song gave, the sudden dissipation of grief was too much for her to endure. It was like the light that blinds us when we suddenly rush from the darkness into the sunshine; and she who had gone through dangers, and horrors, and perils of many a kind, firm and unshaken, fell fainting under the sudden effect of joy. How long she remained so she knew not; but at all events it was not long enough to attract the attention of the people of the house, from the windows, of which she was screened by a thick alley of trees. Some one, however, had been near her, for there were the prints of small feet in the grass, extending from the wall to the spot where she lay, and immediately under her hand was placed a small packet addressed to herself.

Fearful of discovery, she hid it instantly in her bosom, and, as soon as she could, rose, and with a step far slower than her wishes, sped back again to the house to read the paper she had received, in secret.

It was written in a bold, free hand; the date was that very morning; and the first words, "My beloved."

Marie de Clairvaut laid the letter down and gasped for breath. It was sufficient, it was altogether sufficient; every doubt, every fear that had remained was now at an end, and she once more burst into tears; but, oh, how sweet were those tears! how happy! how unlike the past! Soon she took up the letter again, and through the dazzling drops that still hung in her eyes read the bright assurance, that he lived for her who loved him.

"I have feared," the letter said, "I have feared, that a report of my death which has been current in this city of Paris should have reached my beloved Marie, and the more especially as, by the counsel and earnest entreaty of the Duke of Guise, I have myself contributed to the spread of the rumour, and have taken every means to suffer it to be confirmed. The object of this, however, was to deliver you alone by throwing those who so unjustly detain you off their guard; and some days ago I came on into this neighbourhood--where my brother, the Abbé de Boisguerin, and the Duke of Epernon, all are, and to which we have traced Villequier several times--in the confident belief that you were not far distant from Angoulême. It might have been some time ere I discovered your abode, but accident has befriended me, and my page, who bears you this, and undertakes positively to deliver it to you, saw you yesterday morning by a most extraordinary but fortunate chance. I dare not venture near you in the early part of the morning, but ere night has closed in, I will find some means to see and speak with you. As far as possible, dearest Marie, be prepared for any thing that it may be necessary to undertake. I fear that you have already suffered much; but I will not doubt that even the rash and violent men who have dared every crime to withdraw you from those that love you best, have treated you with tenderness and kindness. I too have suffered much, but far more from knowing that you were at the mercy of those who persecute you while I was lying stretched upon the bed of sickness, than from the very wounds that brought me there. I am now well: I am near you; and that is enough to enable me to say that I am happy, although there may be perils and dangers before us, as we are still in the midst of our adversaries, and must once more attempt to pass through a long track of country with obstacles at every step."

The letter ended with every expression of affection and of love; and again and again Marie de Clairvaut read it and wept, and fell into fits of deep thought, and could scarcely believe that the joyous tidings were true.

She next asked herself what she could do to favour her lover's efforts. The two or three women who had been appointed to wait upon her, as well as the male attendants by whom she was surrounded, were all strangers to her, and she felt that they were her gaolers. There was one of them, however, who had looked upon her during the preceding day with evident compassion, had watched her tears with sorrowful eyes, and had spoken a few words of consolation. At one time she thought of speaking to that woman, and trying to gain her to her interests for the purpose of facilitating any thing that Charles of Montsoreau might do to effect her liberation. She hesitated, however, and judging that if he succeeded in seeing her that evening it would be by passing over the wall at the spot where she had heard the boy singing in the evening; she lingered about during the whole of the evening, listening for the least sound. None was heard, however, and at length the bell at the gates of the enclosure was heard to ring.

Agitated and anxious, fearing that every moment might bring Charles of Montsoreau to the spot, at the very time that other persons were near, she came out from behind the trees, and walked slowly on by the side of the river. Just at that moment a small boat pushed slowly up the current by a country boy, passed by the spot where she stood; but the boy whistled lightly on his way, as he went, and took no notice of her; and in a minute after, she heard steps approaching from the other side, and turned with some anxiety to see who it was that approached.

It was the servant girl we have before mentioned, who came towards her quickly, saying, "You have been very sad these two days, lady, and I wish you would take comfort. Here is a good man, one of the preaching friars just called at the gate, and I'm sure, if you would but listen to him, he would give you consolation."

"Oh no," replied Marie de Clairvaut, "he could give me no consolation, my good girl. My own thoughts just now are my best companions."

As she spoke, however, to her dismay, she saw the monk coming across the green from the side of the gates, and she determined at once to reject all his proffered advice and consolation, fearing that the precious minute for seeing him she loved might be lost by this unwonted intrusion.

"Do listen to him, dear lady," said the girl. "When I told him how sad you were, he said he was sure that he could give you comfort."

In the mean time the friar approached with a slow step, with his cowl drawn over his head, and his hand supported by his staff. Marie de Clairvaut trembled from anxiety and apprehension, and only returned the friar's benedicite by an inclination of the head and an assurance that she did not stand in need of the consolation he offered.

"Yet listen to me, daughter," he said, without withdrawing the cowl from his head. But the first tones of that full rich voice proved sufficient nearly to overpower the fair girl to whom he spoke. "If you will hear me but for five minutes, my daughter," he said, "I think and I believe, that I can suggest to you consolations that you may take to heart; and if not, the few words I have to speak can do you no harm at least."

Marie de Clairvaut bowed her head, and took a step or two nearer to the water, while the woman withdrew for a short space, so as to be out of ear shot. But still she remained watching the two, as if she were either afraid of having done wrong in admitting the friar at all, or had suddenly conceived some suspicion of his purpose. The eyes of Marie de Clairvaut and of Charles of Montsoreau turned that way, and both saw that they were watched. Could they have followed the dictates of their own hearts, they would have cast themselves into each other's arms; but now they were forced to stand, ruling every look and every gesture, and assuming the demeanour of strangers, even while the words of love and affection were bursting from their lips. The young nobleman, however, gave but brief course to his feelings.

"This night, Marie," he said, after a few words of passionate tenderness, "this very night at twelve, a boat shall be ready for you underneath that bank, and means prepared for you to descend. It has already passed up the river in order that we may descend swiftly with the stream, for the current is too rapid to permit of our passing up without the risk of being stopped at every moment. At Jarnac, however, all is prepared for our escape, and though our journey thence may be longer, it will be more secure. Can you be here at that hour?"

"I can," she said, "and will, and, oh! may God grant, Charles, that this time we may not only come within sight of the haven, as we have twice done before, but reach it altogether; and never, never again will I suffer them to separate me from you, as I did on that awful day in Paris."

"Even yet, neither I nor the Duke know how it happened," said Charles of Montsoreau.

"As I was following the Queen," replied Marie, rapidly, "some one pulled me by the sleeve, and on turning to see who it was, the crowd closed in between me and Catherine. The person who had touched me was dressed in the colours of the house of Guise, and he said, 'The Duke expects you Mademoiselle. If you will come round this way, I will lead you to the other gate where there is no crowd.' I followed willingly, and nothing doubting; and he led me round into one of the streets behind, when suddenly I was seized by the arms on either side, and hurried along without the power of resistance. I cried for help as loud as I could, indeed, but they bore me rapidly into the house opposite, where I saw the Abbé de Boisguerin, and could hear your brother's voice talking to Monsieur de Villequier. They then put me into a chair, the blinds of which I could not undraw, and carried me rapidly to another house, where I remained for some time, till Villequier and the rest again appeared. I did all that woman could do, Charles, to make them set me free; but what could I do? what means had I to use?--entreaties, to which they were deaf; menaces, at which they laughed. Your brother, indeed, said something that he intended for kindness, and the Abbé looked gloomy and sad. But Villequier only smiled for all answer; till at length tidings were brought them that they were discovered, and that people were coming rapidly in pursuit of them. I was then once more borne away by Villequier, after a few words between him and your brother; and I heard your brother say as they parted, 'I will delay them as long as possible.' Where they took me I know not well, but I believe it was the Hôtel de Villequier.--But see, the woman is coming near! We must part, dear Charles; I fear we must once more part."

Nothing more could be said, for the girl now approached; and Charles of Montsoreau, assuming the tone of the friar, bade Marie remember his words, and take them to heart; and then, giving her his blessing, departed.

Shortly before midnight, wrapt in a cloak of a dark colour, in order, as far as possible, to pass unobserved if any eye should be watching, Marie de Clairvaut passed through one of the lower windows of the château, and with a light step, sprang into the little cloister that ran along one side of the building, at no great depth from the window. The moon was shining bright and full, and every object around, except where the shadow of the cloister fell, was as clear as if the sun had been in the sky.

She paused and listened with a beating heart. There was no sound but the murmur of the quick Charente; and then, putting her ear to the open window, she listened there to ascertain that all was quiet in the house. Nothing stirred; and, knowing how important it was to leave no trace of the manner in which her flight had been effected, she closed the casement carefully, and prepared to go forth into the moonlight.

There was something, however, in the stillness, and the clearness, and the calmness of every thing that was in itself fearful; and she hesitated for a moment before she went out. At length, however, she ventured across the green and shining turf, and with a quick step approached the edge of the water. Looking down upon it from above, she could see nothing in the deep shadow of the bank; but, suddenly, a bright ripple caught some stray rays of moonlight, and chequered the dark bosom of the water with quick lines of silver.

"Are you there?" said the voice of Charles of Montsoreau from below.

"Yes," she said. "How shall I descend?"

But, even as she spoke, a figure glided out from the shrubs beside her, and, uttering a low cry, Marie de Clairvaut perceived the girl who had given admittance to the supposed friar on the preceding evening. The sound which she had uttered had instantly caught the attention of Charles of Montsoreau; and, springing up the bank, he found the girl with her hand clasped round the Lady's wrist, but holding up the other hand as if enjoining silence.

"You are unkind," said the girl, in a low tone, "when I was kind to you. I have already been bitterly reproached for letting in the monk; and now, if you fly, what will become of me? They will say that I did it."

"Fear not, fear not!" answered Charles of Montsoreau, "and attempt not to detain the Lady, my good girl; for go she must and will; and, as there is no other boat here, any attempt to pursue us will be vain. All you can do by endeavouring to detain her will be useless, and but injure yourself. Here is money for you," he continued.

The girl put it away with her hand, replying, "I want no money, sir; but if she goes, I will go with her. I will not stay here in the power of that dark Abbé. I will come with her if she will let me."

"Willingly, willingly," replied Charles of Montsoreau; "but say not a word, and come quick; and remember, till the Lady is safe under the protection of the Duke of Guise, we pause for no one, so there must be no pretences of fatigue."

"Fear not," replied the girl; "I can bear more than she can. But how can we get down the bank?"

"There is a short ladder," said the young Count. "Come quick!" And in a moment after he aided Marie de Clairvaut to descend. It was all done in a moment. The girl followed the Lady, the ladder was taken into the boat, and, with joy and satisfaction beyond all conception, the fair girl, whose days had lately passed so sorrowfully, felt the little vessel fluctuating beneath her feet as she seated herself in it; while Charles of Montsoreau, with a man who had been waiting therein, pushed the boat away from the bank, and a boy seated at the stern guided it into the deeper parts of the water. There were but a few words spoken by any one.

"You are sure, Ignati," said the young Count, "that you marked every rock and shoal as you came up?"

"Quite sure," replied the boy; and, leaving the current, which was rapid and powerful, to bear them on, without disturbing its smooth surface by the splash of oars, they glided along quickly down the stream: now in moonlight, now in shade, with the high rocky banks and promontories filled with holes and caverns, which border the valley of the Charente, now seen in bright clear light--now rising up against the silvery sky wrapped in deep shadows and obscurity.

The hand of Marie de Clairvaut lay clasped in that of her lover as they sat side by side. Their hearts were full, though their lips were silent; and the eyes of both were raised towards the sky, filled with thankfulness, and hope, and trust. Thus they went on for about two hours, saying but little, and that little in low and murmured tones; but as they went, Charles of Montsoreau found occasion to tell her that he had luckily effected a new arrangement, and that he had procured means of landing and proceeding on their journey before they reached Jarnac.

At length, after a voyage of about two hours and a half, as the moon was beginning to decline, a rushing sound was heard over the bow of the boat, and the waters of the river were seen fretting against a dyke, which had been built to confine it in its proper course. A couple of houses, sheltered by two sloping hills which swept down to the very bank of the river, appeared upon the left hand, with what seemed a number of living objects gathered about them.

Marie de Clairvaut turned her eyes to Charles of Montsoreau with some apprehension, but he pressed her hand tenderly, saying, "Fear not, fear not. They are my own people, waiting for our arrival."

The boy guided the boat safely up to the landing place, and the question, "Who comes here?" was demanded, as if at a regular warlike post.

"A friend," replied Charles of Montsoreau, and gave the word Château Thierry. The man grounded his arms, and Charles of Montsoreau, springing to the shore, led Marie de Clairvaut and the girl who had followed her, to one of the houses, where every thing seemed prepared for their reception.

He paused for a moment to gaze upon the face of the girl who had accompanied them, and to ask her name, which he found to be Louise. The countenance was good, and frank, and gentle, and the natural spirit of physiognomy, which is in every one's brain, gave a pleasant reading of that face.

"Listen to me," he said, speaking to her. "As you have preferred the service of this lady to remaining behind where I found you, depend upon it every attention and devotion that you show to her by the way will be taken note of and well rewarded; and do not forget, that, if possible, you are never to leave her, but to do every thing in your power, under all circumstances, to enable her to reach the Duke of Guise, who is her near relation, and whom we expect to find at Blois or Chartres."

"Is she so great a lady?" said the girl.

"She is the niece and ward of the great Duke of Guise," replied Charles of Montsoreau; "and the time is rapidly coming when those who have injured and offended her will be severely punished, and those who have assisted and befriended her rewarded far beyond their expectations."

Having said this, he left them to see that all was properly prepared; and in a few minutes more Marie de Clairvaut, with the girl who accompanied her, were placed in one of the rude but roomy chaises of the country, and with six horses to drag it through the heavy roads, was rolling away in the direction of Limoges, followed by Charles of Montsoreau, and a party of five or six servants on horseback.