we'll fight till all be grey--
The Valois at our feet to-day,
In his deep grave the Bearnais--
Our chief has come--the Balafre!"

But Professor Anatole did not hear. He was in the whirl of his
exposition of the blessings of universal peace. The Church had always
brought a sword, and would to the end. But Philosophy, Divine
Philosophy, which was what Solomon meant--peace was within her walls,
prosperity, etc.

And by this time the Spaniard, otherwise the Abbe John, was crawling
stealthily towards the locked door. Guy Launay, on the contrary, was
breathing hard, rustling leaves, taking notes for two, both elbows
working. The Master was in the full rush of his discourse. He saw
nothing, knew nothing. He had forgotten the robing-room in the
affirmation that, "In the midst of turmoil, the truly philosophic may,
and often does, preserve the true peace--the truest of all, peace of
mind, peace of conscience."

_Bang!_

There was a tremendous explosion immediately under the window.

"The King's men blowing up a barricade!" thought the Abbe John, with his
hand on the great flat key, but drawing back a little. "If that does not
wake him up, nothing will."

But the gentle, even voice went on, triumphing--the periods so familiar
to the lecturer ringing out more clearly than ever. "Wars shall cease
only when Wisdom, which is God, shall prevail. Philosophy is at one with
Religion. The Thousand Years shall come a thousand times over and on the
earth shall reign----"

The key gritted in the lock. The Abbe John disappeared behind the heavy
curtain which hid the door of the robing-room.

The next moment he found himself in the presence of a man, lying rigidly
on the Professor's table, all among the books and papers, and of the
fairest young girl the Abbe John had ever seen, gently closing eyes
which would never more look out upon the world.

Within, the Professor's voice droned on, discoursing of peace,
righteousness, and eternal law. The great Day of the Barricades rattled
and thundered without. Acrid blasts of sulphurous reek drove into the
quiet room, and the Abbe John, speechless with amazement, looked into
the wet eyes of this wonderful vision--the purest, the loveliest, the
most forlorn maid in France.

CHAPTER II.

CLAIRE AGNEW

A long moment they stood gazing at each other, the girl and the Abbe
John. They might have been sister and brother. There was the same dark
clustering hair, close-gripp