a choking sob Claire fell into her husband's arms.

"God make me worthy!" she whispered, holding very close.

* * * * *

AFTER THE CURTAIN

In the Mas of the Mountain the olive logs were piled high. The mistral
of November made rage outside. But those who gathered round were well
content. Claire sat by Dame Amelie's knee, her hand in her father's, her
husband watching her proudly.

There were the three brothers, to all appearance not a day older--the
Professor with a huge Pliny on his knee, the miller with the lines of
farina-dust back again in the crow's feet about his eyes, and Don Jordy,
who had taken up the succession of a notary's office in Avignon, which
is a great city for matters and quarrels ecclesiastical, being Papal
territory of the strictest: he also throve.

The three were telling each other for the thousandth time how glad they
were to be free and bachelors. Thus they had none to consider but
themselves. The world was open and easy before them. Nothing was more
light than the heart of a woman--nothing heavier than that of a man
saddled with a wife. In short, the vine having been swept clean, the
grapes had become very, very sour.

All this in natural pleasantry, while Dame Amelie interrupted them with
her ever-new rejoinder.

"They are slow--slow, my sons," she murmured, patting the head of Claire
which touched her side--"slow, but good lads. Only--they will be dead
before they are married!"

Into the quietly merry circle came Jean-aux-Choux. He brought great
news.

"The Bearnais has beaten Mayenne and bought the others!" he cried;
"France will be a quiet land for many days--no place for Jean-aux-Choux.
So I will hie me to the Prince of Orange, and there seek some good
fighting for the Religion! Will you come with me, Francis Agnew, as in
the days before the Bartholomew?"

But the worn man shook his head.

"I have been too long at the oar, Jean-aux-Choux!" he said. "Moreover, I
am too old. When I see these young folk settled in that which the
Bearnais hath promised them, I have a thought to win back and lay this
tired tickle of bones in good Wigtonshire mould--somewhere within sough
of the Back Shore of the Solway, where the waves will sing me to sleep
at nights! Come back with me, John Stirling, and we will eat oaten cakes
and tell old tales!"

"Not I," cried Jean-aux-Choux, "I go where the fighting is--where the
weapon-work is to be done. I shall die on