of angels were
busy around the Castle of Blois in these short grey days of mid-most
winter.

Now and then, however, would come a heavenly morning, when Claire, left
alone, looked out upon the clear, clean, zenith-blue sweep of the river,
and on the misty opal and ultramarine ash of the distance, ridge fading
behind ridge as drowsy thought fades into sleep.

"It is a Paradise of beauty, but"--here she hesitated a while--"there is
no Adam, that I can see!"

In spite of the winter day she opened her window to the slightly
sun-warmed air.

"I declare I am somewhat in Eve's mood to-day," she continued, smiling
to herself as she laid down her embroidery; "even an affable serpent
would be better than nothing."

But it could not be. For all the powers of good and evil--the Old
Serpent among them--were full of business in the Chateau of Blois during
these days of the King's last parliament. And so, while Claire read her
Amyot's _Plutarch_ and John Knox's _Reformation_, the single stroke
which changed all history hung unseen in the blue.

CHAPTER XX.

THE BLOOD ON THE KERCHIEF

The most familiar servants of my Lord of Guise dared not awake their
master. He had cast himself down on the great bed in his chamber when he
came in late, or rather early--no man cared to ask which--from the
lodging of Monsieur de Noirmoutier. Even his bravest gentlemen feared to
disturb him, though the King's messenger had come twice to summon him to
a council meeting at the Chateau.

"Early--very early? Well, what is that to me?" said the herald. "Bid
your master come to the King!"

"The King! Who is he?" cried insolently the young De Bar. "Brother Henry
the Monk may be your master--he is not ours."

"Hush!" said the aged Raincy, Guise's privileged major-domo and
confidant, the only man from whom the Duke took advice, "it were wiser
to send a message that my Lord of Guise is ill, but that he will be
informed of the King's command and will be at the Chateau as soon as
possible."

Guise finally awoke at eight, and looking out, shivered a little at the
sight of as dismal a dawning as ever broke over green Touraine. It had
been raining all night, and, indeed, when the Duke had come in from his
supper-party he had thrown himself down with but little ceremony of
undressing. This carelessness and his damp clothes had told upon him.

"A villain rheum," he cried, as he opened his eyes, to listen
ill-humouredly enough to Raincy's grave c