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different content
peculiar flash of his gray eye, like sunlight reflected from
bright armor, that I had learned to know so well.

"The king is governed by his counsellors," said my

father.

"As to that," answered Andrew, "he does not seem to be

very much governed by his counsellors in the matter of his
building and gambling expenses, and—some other things,"
catching a warning glance from my mother. "I thought he
made a boast that he was the state. As to his being
deceived, why does he not find out for himself? Things are
no better in Paris than here. How can he be ignorant of
what happens under his very nose?"

"Very easily, my son. A good many things happen under

the very nose of His Majesty King Charles of England which
do not seem to make much impression on his mind," said
my father, a little testily. He had his full share of that
unreasoning loyalty—unreasonable, too, as I think—which
possessed all France, Protestant and Catholic, at that time.
"We have all heard how the king was engaged the night that
the Dutch sailed up the river. You cannot propose him as a
model, nephew!"

"I never said he was," answered Andrew dryly, and then

the conversation stopped.

The next morning I went out very early into the lane to
look for a pair of scissors which I had dropped the day
before, when I was joined by my cousin.

"Vevette," said he, "is there no place from which we can

view this procession in safety? I have a great curiosity
about it."
 "Oh, yes, we can do so from the top of the rock at the
end of our lane, if you like," I answered. "But we must
make haste thither, for they will soon be on their way."

I was all the more ready for the adventure as I hoped to

obtain a glimpse of Lucille.

We were soon safely hidden among the tall bushes and

wild vines which covered the top of the rock, but not too
soon, for we were hardly settled before the head of the
procession appeared in sight. It had been joined by pilgrims
from all parts of Normandy, and looked like a little army.
The cross-bearer came first, as usual, then a company of
priests, loudly chanting as they walked, then banners
without number, and I know not what devices besides of
images and angels and what not. Then came a company of
women, headed by the nuns from the hospital, each leading
by the hand one of the new converts, as they were called,
in bitter derision.

The poor little Luchon was there, pale and thin as a

shadow. Her wasted hand held a rosary like the rest, but it
drooped listlessly by her side. Either the sad-faced nun who
led her by the other hand did not think it worth while to
have a public contest with her, or she had tried and failed,
for she did not interfere with the child, and, I even fancied,
looked at her with an eye of pity.

Lucille was one of the last. I saw in a moment that she

was at least no happier than she had been at home, for the
dark shade was on her face which I knew so well. However,
she was telling her beads as diligently as the best of them.
As she passed the foot of the rock she looked up. I had
ventured a little nearer the edge than was quite prudent,
and our eyes met for a moment. She made me a warning
sign, and then a bitter smile curled her lips, and she
pressed to them with fervor the crucifix attached to her
rosary. Her companion looked up also, but saw nothing, as I
had shrunk back from my dangerous position. That was the
last time I saw my old playmate for many a long day,
though I heard from her once or twice, as I have reason to
remember.

There were more banners and more pilgrims, but I saw

none of them. I had retreated to the back of the cliff and
thrown myself down on the moss in a fit of bitter weeping. I
had loved Lucille dearly, despite our many quarrels, and I
believe she loved me as much as her self-absorbed nature
would let her love any one. Hers was an asking love, always
thinking more of what it was to get than of what it had to
give.

Andrew was so absorbed in the spectacle that he did

not miss me till all were past, and when he came to find
me, he was frightened at my agitation. It was some time
before I could even be got to move or speak. Andrew
brought me water in a little drinking-cup he always carried,
fanned me, and soothed me with the greatest tenderness,
and at last I was able to tell him the story.

"Then that was the girl who looked up," said he. "I
thought there was something peculiar about her. She does
not look very happy with her new friends. I wonder what
they will do with her?"

"Make a nun of her, if they can squeeze her dowry out

of Father Simon, or perhaps marry her up to some one," I
answered. "Julienne's sister says the Le Febres are very
angry with Pierre for marrying his old sweetheart Isabeau,
when he might have waited and taken Lucille and her farm."
 "But the farm is her father's, and will descend to her
brother, won't it?" asked Andrew in surprise. "Did you not
tell me she had a brother who was expected home?"

"Yes, my foster-brother, David. You will like him, I am

sure. But he is of the Religion, like his father, and if Lucille
should marry a Catholic, * the law would find some way of
handing the farm over to him, though David is honest and
industrious, and Pierre is a bit of a reprobate. I hope David
will come; I should like you to see him."

* I do not like to use Catholic in this sense, but we were

in a manner forced to it at that time.—G. C.

"Pierre may be a bit of a reprobate, but he is a good bit

of a man as well," said Andrew. "I saw him give that great
hulking Antoine Michaud a blow that knocked him flat
because he insulted that poor old woman whose
grandchildren were taken away from her."

(I forgot to mention that poor old Gran'mère Luchon

had been allowed to return to her cottage, being, I suppose,
too small game to be worth the bagging, or perhaps with
the hope of catching some one else by her means.)

"He knows how to sail a boat, too," continued Andrew.

"I went out with him yesterday, and I never saw a boat
better handled, though it is a horrid old tub, too. Such a
fellow ought to be a soldier or sailor. Many a man has made
a good record on shipboard who would never do anything
for himself."

"I hope he will be good to poor Isabeau," said I. "But

come, Andrew, we must go home."
 We had been sitting all this time on the top of the rock,
in the very place where Lucille had cleared a spot for her
spindle. As we rose, we both cast a glance over the
landscape.

"There is going to be a storm," said I. "See how the

sea-birds are all flying to shore, and how the fog is
beginning to creep in from the sea. I am glad I am not
going to cross the Grèves this day. Some one is sure to go
astray and be lost."

"Drowned by the tide?" asked Andrew.

"Yes, or more likely sucked under by the quicksands,

which extend themselves very much at times. There is
hardly ever a great pilgrimage but some one is lost. Come,
we must be going. My mother will wonder where we are."

The storm I had predicted came on later in the day, just

in time to catch many of the returning pilgrims, and several
were drowned, among them, as we heard, the poor little
Luchon and the nun who had her in charge.

"One cannot be sorry for the child," remarked my father

when he heard the news. "She has escaped a great deal."

"Nor for her companion either, if there be any truth in

looks," said Andrew. "I never saw a sadder, more hopeless
face. Did you not notice it, Vevette?"

"I did," I answered. "I noticed, too, that she looked

compassionately on the poor child, and did not try to force
her to tell her beads, like some of the others."

"This storm is an unlucky thing for us," said my mother.

"I can see well how it will be used to excite the people more
and more against us. Armand, when shall we leave this
place, and put our children and ourselves in safety?"

"As soon as Mrs. Grace is able to travel," answered my

father. "We could not leave her behind, or take her with us
at present. I trust another month will see us in England. I
would not leave my people so long as my presence was any
protection to them, but I think, as things are now, they
would be better without me."

"Could not your brother in Paris secure you a protection

from the king?" asked Andrew. "He seems to be a great
courtier, and greatly in favor."

"So great a courtier that he would not risk a frown from

the king to save my whole family from destruction,"
answered my father dryly.

"No, there is nothing to hope and everything to fear

from attracting the notice of any one about the king. I have
looked the matter all over, and tried to gain every light on
the subject that I was able," continued my father gravely; "I
have also asked counsel of such of our pastors as I have
been able to meet with, and my mind is made up. So soon
as Grace is able to travel we must endeavor to escape. So,
my wife and daughter, you must pack up your valuables and
necessaries in the smallest possible compass, and keep the
bundles where you can lay your hands upon them at any
moment."

"But mind, the necessaries must be reduced to the

lowest point," he added, with that sorrowful smile I had
learned to know so well. "Vevette cannot carry her story
books nor her carved wheel, nor madame her rose-bushes
or her poultry, or Mrs. Grace her precious marmalade. A
very few clothes and the jewels and a little money are all
we can take with us."

These words fell coldly upon my ear and heart. I was

familiar enough with the idea of flight, but I had not
realized that flight meant leaving behind all my most
cherished possessions—my beloved books, my lute, my pet
cows, all that I treasured most. I went up to my pretty little
room, and, sitting down, I wept as if my heart would break
for a while. Then I knelt down and prayed, with all sincerity
and earnestness, that I might have grace cheerfully to
abandon all I had, yea and mine own life also, if need be,
for the kingdom of heaven's sake.

And after a while, feeling comforted and strengthened, I

arose and began looking over my possessions, to see what
should be taken and what left. I do not think that in this I
was foolish or even childish. It is not seldom that very little
things bring home to us the bitterness of grief. I have seen
a lady who was perfectly cool, collected, and sweet-
tempered through all the dangers of a terrible storm and
shipwreck and the miseries of dreadful sea-sickness,
protracted for weeks, break down in an agony of grief
because the little dog she had brought from France was
swept overboard from the wreck an which she might herself
go down at any moment.

But poor Mrs. Grace was destined to take a longer

journey than that we proposed, and to find a refuge where
neither danger nor home-sickness can enter—where the
wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest. She
had been for several weeks confined to her bed.

One day my father and mother, Andrew and myself set

out for a long walk over the domain. It was rather a silent
and sorrowful expedition, for, though no one said so, we all
felt that it might be a last farewell. We called at Simon
Sablot's farm, and any father confided to Simon certain
weighty deposits and an important secret concerning his
own affairs, and told him where certain valuable packages
would be found in case he should be obliged to send for
them.

I should say that for several nights my father and

Andrew had been busily occupied in conveying to places of
safety so much of our stock of plate as could be removed
without suspicion. This was the more easy because we used
very little silver every day, the rest being secured in a
strong closet which opened from my father's room. We went
through the orchards and the little vineyard, visited the old
people at the lonely grange, walked through the chestnut
wood and filled our pockets with the nuts, which were just
ripening and falling.*

* The fine chestnut-tree at the south end of the house is

from one of these nuts. I trust no one will over cut it
down.—G. C.

"There is a fine harvest of chestnuts at least," said my

mother, sighing. "I hope some one will be the better for
them."

My father pressed the hand that lay on his arm, but he

could not trust himself to speak. The moment was an
unspeakably bitter one to him. He had taken great pains
with his estate, and had laid out much money in
improvements, not only for his own profit but still more for
the good of his tenants. Every field and tree and vine, yea,
every bush and stone, was dear to his heart, and though he
did not hesitate—no, not for a moment, when he had to
choose between these things and the kingdom of heaven—
yet he could not but feel the wrench when he had to tear
himself away from them. I sometimes fear, in these days
when the church and the world are so mixed together that it
is rather hard to see any division line between them, that
people will utterly lose the meaning of such places of
Scripture as the tenth chapter of St. Matthew.

We had not reached the tower when Julienne came

running to meet us, her face as pale as her cap.

"Thank Heaven, you are come, madame!" said she

breathlessly. "I have sent everywhere for you. Mamselle
Grace has had a swoon, and we cannot bring her to
herself."

"A swoon? How was that?" asked my mother, as we all

quickened our steps. "I thought she was feeling very well
this morning."

"She was, madame; but you were no sooner out of the

house than she would make me help her up and dress her,
and she has been up ever since. She would even walk into
your room, leaning on my arm, and sat there while I dusted
the furniture, though I had dusted it all not more than an
hour before," said Julienne, in an aggrieved voice. "Then
she would have her work-basket and darn a cambric ruffle
of monsieur's, and all I could say she would not lie down. I
assure madame that I did my best to persuade her."

"I doubt it not, my good Julienne; but what then?"

"Then, just as the bell rang for noon, she said she felt
tired, and would lie down. I called Marie and Annette, for I
saw she looked dreadfully ill; but we had not got her on the
bed before she fainted, and we cannot get a sign of life
from her any more than if she were dead. So I sent for
madame."
 We had reached the tower by that time, and any mother
run up-stairs to Mrs. Grace's room, closely followed by
myself. Though I had never, to my knowledge, seen death
before, I knew, the moment I set eyes upon Grace, what
had happened. People talk of death and sleep being alike,
but I can never see the resemblance. We tried a long time
and in every way to bring back animation, but it was of no
use, and we soon came to perceive that our good faithful
friend had left us forever.

I cannot describe my mother's grief on the occasion.

Grace had been her own personal attendant ever since she
could remember. She had been taken into my
grandmother's nursery a little maid of nine years old, and
had been specially assigned to my mother. She had followed
her mistress to a strange land, had been with her through
all her ill-health and the loss of her many children, had been
nurse, friend, companion, and servant, all in one. I loved
Grace dearly, lamented her deeply; but the event was not
to me what it was to my mother.

However, she was gone, and there was an end. The

servants wept, too, as they prepared her body for the
grave. They forgot all the scoldings she had given them,
and only remembered how she had nursed them in
sickness, and the numberless kindnesses she had shown
them and their friends at home.

"I was vexed enough at her this morning," sobbed

Julienne, who, as a bit of a slattern, and especially as being
guilty of the crowning enormity of having a sweetheart,
most frequently fell under the displeasure of Mrs. Grace;
"but I am sure I would dust all the furniture of the house
thrice over if it would do her any good."
 "And what will madame do without her?" asked Marie.
"Nobody can know her ways like Mamselle Grace, though
there are perhaps others who can govern the household as
well, or even better. I always thought she was very wasteful
of sugar and honey in preserving the fruits."

"Yes, you would like them as sour as last year's cider,"

retorted Julienne. "Mamselle Grace was not a skinflint,
whatever else she was."

"What will you do about the funeral?" asked Andrew of

my father. "Shall you send to Granville or Avranches for an
undertaker?"

"No indeed!" answered my father. "I have given special

orders to the servants not to say a word about poor Grace's
death. It would be sure to bring down upon us a visitation.
Mathew is making her a coffin now, and we must place the
body in the vault beneath the chapel, as soon as may be—
this very night, if possible. There she may perhaps rest in
peace. I would not, if I could help it, have my poor old
friend's body thrown out into a ditch like a dead dog."

"They would not dare to do it," said Andrew, aghast.

"They would be sure to do it," was my father's answer.

"Things have not improved since the Duke of Guise kicked
the dead face of brave old Coligny. If it were only the dead
who were warred upon, it would not be so much matter."

"And yet somehow an insult to the dead seems baser

and more cowardly than one offered to the living," said
Andrew thoughtfully. "Many a rude fellow who would knock
a man down as soon as look at him, as we say, would be
horrified at any rough treatment of a corpse. Why is it?"
 "Partly, perhaps, from superstition, but more from an
idea that the dead are helpless to defend themselves,"
answered my father. "If a man have any manhood in him,
his heart will be touched by the plea of helplessness. It is
only when men are turned into demons by war or cruelty or
lust that they will disregard the plea of helplessness."

That very night at midnight, the corpse of our good old

friend was conveyed down to the vault, beneath the ruined
chapel, and built into one of the niches of the wall with
some of the rough stones which lay loose about the floor. I
had never been in the vault before, and my father cautioned
me to beware how I stepped. The floor was of the natural
rock, rough and uneven, and in some places were deep
cracks from which issued a solemn roaring sound, now loud,
now faint and almost dying away. By one of the niches I
have mentioned which surrounded the vault, and which
were like small chambers hewn in the rock, was placed a
little pile of building materials. In this chamber was placed
the body of our good old friend.

My father read from my mother's prayer-book the

funeral service of the Church of England, so solemn,
touching, and comforting. Then the vault was built up with
stones taken from the floor, and carefully daubed with
mould and slime, to look as much like the rest of the wall as
possible. It was a dreary funeral enough, but not so sad as
was many another in these sad days, when many a dutiful
child had to look on and see the body of a father or mother
dragged away on a hurdle and cast into a bog or buried in a
dunghill.
 CHAPTER VIII.
FLIGHT.

THE next day my father took Andrew and myself once

more into the vault—this time by the secret passage which
led from the pastor's room in the tower. We had a lantern
with us, which we lighted as soon as we had shut ourselves
in, for the lower passage and the staircase were quite dark.

"I made a discovery in this place some years since,

which I think may be of great service to us, if worse comes
to worst," said my father. "There used to be a legend to the
effect that a great cavern existed under this vault which had
an outlet to the sea-shore, and to which there was formerly
an entrance from this place. It was said that this entrance
had been built up on account of some dreadful crime
committed in the cavern. However that may be, in trying
when a young man, to satisfy my curiosity upon the
subject, I found an underground passage leading from
hence to the little ruined tower in the orchard, which you
were teaching Vevette to sketch the other day."

"How curious!" said Andrew. "What could it have been

used for?"

"Probably for a sally-port in the days when the house

was fortified. Such underground ways are not uncommon in
old buildings. It may serve us a good turn upon a pinch; but
you must help me to open it, and you, Vevette, must hold
the light. I built it up myself with the hewn stones which
seem to have been left here from ancient times, perhaps
from the time that the entrance was closed to the cavern
below. No one knows the secret but old Sablot, who died
the other day, and who assisted me in the work. So as there
is no one else about the place whom I dare trust, I must
even ask you, my fair son, to turn laborer for once, and
help me with these same stones."

"I want no better fun," said Andrew, pulling off his coat
at once. "I have been suffering for some hard work ever
since I came here."

"Is that the reason you go out so often with Pierre Le

Febre in his new boat?" I asked.

For my father, seeing that Pierre was really making a

great struggle to do well, had given him a fine new fishing-
boat, to be paid for in very small instalments, as he could
afford, and the poor fellow and his wife were very grateful.

"Partly for that reason, and partly because I am

interested in the man himself," answered Andrew. "He is
one who, under good teaching, would have made a brave
seaman. If I read him aright, he is one of those people who
need grand motives—more than the mere living and
working from day to day, and I have been trying in my
stupid way to set before him something of the sort. He was
as much astonished when I told him that God was his
Father, and was pleased when he did well and grieved when
he did ill, as if he had been brought up among the heathen
I have seen in the Indian seas. But I beg your pardon, sir; I
did not mean to preach."

And Andrew caught himself up and blushed like a girl,

for, like other young men, he was dreadfully ashamed of
having any one think he was trying to be good.

"I do not see why you should beg my pardon, dear

son," said my father, with a smile—that sweet, sudden smile
which does so light up a usually grave face, and which I see
again sometimes on my sober little Armand. "Surely it is a
blessed work, and one which God will own. But I must warn
you that it is not without danger. You may be accused
proselyting, which is one of our deadliest sins in the eyes of
our enemies."

"Well," said Andrew, with a great sigh, "I think I shall

appreciate it, if I reach a land where a man may open his
mouth. Why should you delay any longer? Why not fly to-
night?"

"Because my arrangements are not yet complete," said

my father.

"If you wait till everything is ready, you will never go at

all," said Andrew.

"That is true; but there are certain things yet to be

arranged concerning those who stay behind. I must see our
friends at Avranches, and leave with them some means of
raising funds to help themselves withal. To-morrow I shall
go thither, and the day after I hope to go—but why should I
say hope?" he murmured, in the sad voice I knew so well.
"Weep not for the dead, neither bemoan him, but weep,
son, for him that goeth away, for he shall return no more,
nor see his native country."

"If my native country was such a step-dame as this, I

don't think I should bemoan it very much," muttered
Andrew between his teeth.

"Don't the people who have gone away and settled in

America long to see England again?" I asked.

"No, I don't believe they do," he said. "They are as self-

satisfied as any people I ever saw. And yet I don't know,"
he added. "The names they give their children are very
touching, especially those on the stones in their burying-
ground."

"What names?" I asked.

"Such names as 'Hopestill,' 'Waitstill,' 'Submit,'

'Resignation,' and the like. I read one epitaph over a little
baby girl which runs thus:

"'Submit submitted to her Heavenly King,

Being a flower of that Eternal Spring!
Near three years old, she died, in Heaven to wait;
The year was sixteen hundred forty-eight.'

"Not the best of poetry, you will say, but very affecting
to my mind."

"Come, come, son," said my father; "we did not come

into this mouldy old hole to repeat verses. Let us set to
work."

Andrew blushed again, and at once bent himself to the

task of removing the heavy stones. This was hard work,
especially as it was necessary to make as little noise about
it as possible. But it was accomplished at last, and the
arched entrance of the passage made practicable. More my
father did not care to do.

"Now for the other end," said my father. "Vevette, are

you afraid?"

"No indeed!" said I indignantly.

 "Vevette is a real Corbet woman!" said Andrew. "She is
afraid of nothing."

"Except of being laughed at," returned my father.

"Come, then, give me the light. I will go first, and do you
young ones follow, carefully, and looking to your steps."

I was about to speak, but my father put his finger upon

his lip.

"We will not talk," whispered he; "we are now outside
the bounds of the vault, and may be overheard."

Accordingly we proceeded in silence for some hundred

yards, sometimes able to walk upright, sometimes bending
almost double, as the walls and roof contracted, till our
further passage was barred by a heap of large stones.
These, however, being loosely piled, were easily removed,
and we found ourselves in a cellar-like vault, in which were
piled up old cider-casks. (All such places in that part of
Normandy always are full of useless old casks, though what
they are kept for I cannot say.)

From this vault a ruined but passable staircase led up to

the level of the ground. I shall never forget how beautiful
everything looked to me as we emerged from the deeps of
the earth and saw the whole landscape bathed in the mild
autumnal sunshine. My heart bounded for a moment and
then sank as in a deep of cold, bitter waves, when I thought
how soon I must leave all this beauty, never, never to see it
again. English people sometimes fancy that French people
do not care for their homes because they have no one word
which answers to the English one. It is just one of those
pieces of insular pride and—I was going to say stupidity—
which always enrage me, though I am half an English
woman by birth and wholly one by adoption.
 "Ah, fair France!" said my father mournfully. "Thou that
killest the prophets and stonest them that are sent unto
thee. Surely the day will come when thou shalt desire to
see one of the days of the Son of Man, and shall not see it.
Thou hast condemned and killed the just, and he doth not
resist thee!"

"And that is where the just is not of my mind,"

muttered Andrew between his teeth. "If he were, he would
have one fight for it."

My father did not hear, but I did, and gave Andrew a

look, partly of approbation, partly of warning. I felt as he
did. If we could only have fought for our lives, I should not
have minded it so much.

We returned by the fields, after my father and Andrew

had shut up the entrance to the passage with the loose
stones in such a manner that they could easily be removed.
As to the other end, we were not afraid to leave it open,
since not one of our farm or house servants would have
descended into the vault for any consideration. We found
my mother anxiously expecting us.

"You are gone a long time," said she. "Here is a strange

visitor—no less than a Capuchin friar—who says he used to
know you, and desires much to see you."

"A friar!" said my father, turning pale. "What can he

want? Where is he?"

"Eating and drinking in the dining-room at this moment,

if he is not asleep in his chair," answered my mother. "I
could do no less than offer him hospitality, especially as he
asked no impertinent questions, and had nothing to say
about religious matters. He seems a harmless old soul
enough."
 "Many of them are, I believe, while others are wolves in
sheep's clothing," said my father; "but I shall soon see to
which class our friend belongs."

My father went to the dining-room, where he shut

himself in with his guest and remained a long time,
apparently in earnest conversation. Finally, however, we
saw him accompany the friar to the gate and take a friendly
leave of him.

"Well, what had your ghostly father to say?" asked my

mother when my father returned to us.

"Nothing more than I knew already," replied my father.

"Did you not know him? It was my old playmate and
companion in arms, Louis de Reviere."

"I thought there was something familiar in his face and

voice," said my mother. "But what brought him here, and in
that dress?"

"He has taken the tonsure, and is now a Franciscan,"

answered my father. "He had always rather a turn for a
religious life, as they call it. As to his errand, he came
ostensibly to convert me—really to warn us of danger, and
beg us to fly. He says that a company of dragoons will be at
Avranches next week. Ah, my poor people!"

"Do not give way, my Armand," said my mother

tenderly. "But now, tell us clearly, what is your plan?"

"To set forth by night and travel to Honfleur by the most

retired roads, disguised in the peasant dresses I bade you
prepare. You and Vevette will ride the donkeys. Andrew and
myself will walk beside you. We will also have another beast
laden with poor Grace's dried fruits and confections which
we are carrying to Honfleur to sell. Once there we shall find