alace of the Burgundian kings, near to
the spot where, to-day, the ruined forum of the old Roman days is still
shown to tourists.

It had been a palace for centuries. Roman governors of "Imperial Gaul"
had made it their head-quarters and their home; three Roman emperors had
cooed and cried as babies within its walls; and it had witnessed also
many a feast and foray, and the changing fortunes of Roman, Gallic, and
Burgundian conquerors and over-lords. But it was no longer "home" to the
little Princess Clotilda. She thought of her father and mother, and of
her brothers, the little princes with whom she had played in this very
palace, as it now seemed to her, so many years ago. And the more she
feared her cruel uncle, the more did she desire to go far, far away from
his presence. So, after thinking the whole matter over, as little girls
of ten can sometimes think, she told her good friend Ugo, the priest,
of her father's youngest brother Godegesil, who ruled the dependent
principality of Geneva, far up the valley of the Rhone.

"Yes, child, I know the place," said Ugo. "A fair city indeed, on the
blue and beautiful Lake Lemanus, walled in by mountains, and rich in
corn and vineyards."

"Then let us fly thither," said the girl. "My uncle Godegesil I know
will succor us, and I shall be freed from my fears of King Gundebald."

Though it seemed at first to the good priest only a child's desire, he
learned to think better of it when he saw how unhappy the poor girl was
in the hated palace, and how slight were her chances for improvement.
And so, one fair spring morning in the year 486, the two slipped quietly
out of the palace; and by slow and cautious stages, with help from
friendly priests and nuns, and frequent rides in the heavy ox-wagons
that were the only means of transport other than horseback, they finally
reached the old city of Geneva.

And on the journey, the good Ugo had made the road seem less weary, and
the lumbering ox-wagons less jolty and painful, by telling his
bright young charge of all the wonders and relics he had seen in his
journeyings in the East; but especially did the girl love to hear him
tell of the boy king of the Franks, Hlodo-wig, or Clovis, who lived in
the priest's own boyhood home of Tournay, in far-off Belgium, and who,
though so brave and daring, was still a pagan, when all the world was
fast becoming Christian. And as Clotilda listened, she wished that she
could turn this brave young ch