tered the cathedral. Henry was by her
side. The Pontifical High Mass had commenced, and the organ rolled
its majestic tones through the aisles of the old church. Immense
crowds had already gathered around the tomb, and Charles and Henry
repaired to a quiet and obscure portion of the building, where they
could observe without being observed.

Some years had now passed since Charles had breathed a prayer. There
was something in everything around her that softened her heart; she
buried her face in her hands and wept. An eloquent panegyric was
preached by a Dominican Father. The peroration was an appeal to the
assembled thousands to kneel and implore the blessing of the saint
on the city and on themselves. Few sent a more fervent appeal than
the poor, sinful girls who shunned the gaze of the crowd. The prayer
of Charles was heard, and God, who works wonders in the least of his
works, brought about the conversion of this child of predestination
in a manner as strange as it is interesting.

The crowd have left the cathedral. The lights are extinguished. The
service is over. Charles and Henry are amongst the last to leave.
On coming into the great square before the church they were surprised
to see large groups of men in deep conversation. Their excited and
animated manner showed at once something strange had happened. Men
of strange dress appeared also in the crowd. Charles enquired what
was the matter, and was informed that word had just come that
Charles II. of Spain had declared war with Naples, and, as the state
of Milan was subsidiary to the kingdom of the latter, he had sent
officers to cause an enrolment of troops. Large inducements were
offered to all who would join, and numbers of the youth of the city
had already given their names.

Charles scarcely hesitated in coming to a conclusion. The reduced
state of their circumstances, the perfection of her disguise, and
the still unconquered ambition of her heart made the circumstance
a change of golden hope in the sinking prospects of her career. One
thought alone deterred her. Could the delicate frame and soul of
her little sister bear the hardships of a soldier's life? She breathed
her thoughts to Henry. The latter cried and trembled. The one and
only scene of blood she had witnessed still haunted her soul with
horror--'twas in the ravine near Chamounix. But Charles still urged
on the necessity of some desperate movement, and persuaded her, if
t