ent to go see his mother next day, lest he should find himself
one fine morning shortened by a head, all for the glory of God and the
Holy League!"

Doctor Anatole laughed at his pupil's boldness.

"You are out of disciplinary bounds now," he said, "and as you are too
old to birch, I must e'en let you chatter. But what is the meaning of
the Bishop's sudden cordiality?"

"Oh," said the Abbe John, with a sigh of resignation, "these Leaguers
are always getting maggots in their brains. If my mother had been my
father--if I had been a Bourbon instead of a d'Albret--if Henry the
Bearnais had been in my shoes and I in his--if--if--any number of
'ifs'--then there might be something in this heir-to-the-crown business.
But the truth is, they are at their wits' end (which is no long distance
to travel). The Demon of the South, our good, steady-going King of
Spain, drives them hard. They dare not have him to rule over them, with
his inquisitors, his blazing heretic fires, and the rest of it. Yet it
is a choice between him and the Huguenot, unless they can find a true
Catholic king. The Cardinal Bourbon is manifestly too old, though one
day even he may serve to stop a gap. The Duke of Guise may be descended
from the Merovingians or from Adam, but in either case his family-tree
is not convincing. It has too many branches--too few roots! So the
plotters--my good uncle among them--are looking about for some one--any
one--that is, not a Guise nor yet a Huguenot, who may serve their turn.
His Grace of Orleans thinks I may do as well as another. That is
all--only one Leaguer maggot the more."

"And must we, then, always say 'Your Royal Highness' or 'Your Serenity'
when we kiss your hand--which shall it be?" Claire asked the question
gravely.

"I had much rather kiss yours," said the heir to a throne, bowing with
equal gravity; "and as for a name--why, I am plain John d'Albret, at
your service!"

He doffed his cap as he spoke, and the Professor noted for the first
time, with a touch of jealousy, that he was a comely lad enough--that
is, if he had not been so ludicrously young. The Professor (who was not
a philosopher for nothing) noted the passing twinge of jealousy as a
sign that he was growing old. Twenty years ago he might have been
tempted to break his pupil's head for a presumptuous jackanapes, or
challenge him to a bout at the small swords, but jealousy--pah, Anatole
Long thought himself as good as any man--always excepting th