rs'.

She saw and heard all this, and more, and reasoned dully on it. But all
the time her mind was paralysed by the numbing sense of one great evil
awaiting her, of something with which she must presently come face to
face, though her faculties had not grasped it yet. Men's lives! Ah, yes,
men's lives! The girl had been bred a Huguenot. She had been taught to
revere the men of the religion, the men whose names were household
words; and not the weakness of the cause, not even her lover's
influence, had sapped her loyalty to it.

Presently there was a stir about the table. Some of the men rose. "Then
that arrangement meets your views, sire?" said La Noue.

"I think it is the better suggestion. Let it hold. I sleep to-night at
my good friend Mazeau's," the king answered, turning to the person he
named; "and leave to-morrow about noon by St. Martin's gate. That is
understood, is it? Then let it stand so."

He did not see--none of them saw--how the girl in the shadow by the
stove started; nor did they mark how the last trace of colour fled from
her cheeks. She was face to face with her fate now, and knew that her
own hand must work it out. The men were separating. Henry had risen and
was bidding farewell to one and another; until no more than four or five
beside Toussaint and La Noue remained with him. Then he prepared himself
to go, and girt on his sword, talking earnestly the while. Still engaged
in low converse with one of the strangers, he walked slowly, lighted by
his host to the door; he had forgotten to take leave of the girl. In
another minute he and they would have disappeared in the passage, when a
hoarse sound escaped from Madeline's lips.

It was not so much a cry as a groan, but it was enough for men whose
nerves were strained to the breaking point. All--at the moment they had
their backs to her, their faces to the king--turned swiftly. "Ha!" Henry
cried on the instant, "I had forgotten my manners. I was leaving my most
faithful sentry without a word of thanks, or a keepsake by which to
remember Henry of France."

She had risen, and was supporting herself--but she swayed as she
stood--by the arm of the chair. Never had her lover been so dear to
her; never had his faults seemed so small, his love so precious. As the
king approached, the light fell on her face, on her agonized eyes, and
he stopped short. "Toussaint!" he cried sharply, "your daughter is ill.
Look to her!" But it was noticeable that he laid h