whom Paris rung with stories. And this
was the companion of Henri de Beauvais.

Revolving such thoughts, I strolled along unconsciously, until I reached
the place where some days before I had seen the Vendeans engaged in
prayer. The loud tone of a deep voice arrested my steps. I stopped and
listened. It was George himself who spoke; he stood, drawn up to his
full height, in the midst of a large circle who sat around on the grass.
Though his language was a _patois_ of which I was ignorant, I could
catch here and there some indication of his meaning, as much perhaps
from his gesture and the look of those he addressed, as from the words
themselves.

It was an exhortation to them to endure with fortitude the lot that had
befallen them; to meet death when it came without fear, as they could do
so without dishonor; to strengthen their courage by looking to him, who
would always give them an example of what they should be. The last words
he spoke were in a plainer dialect, and almost these: "Throw no glance
on the past. We are where we are,--we are where God, in his wisdom and
for his own ends, has placed us. If this cause be just, our martyrdom is
a blessed one; if it be not so, our death is our punishment. And never
forget that you are permitted to meet it from the same spot where our
glorious monarch went to meet his own."

A cry of "Vive le Roi!" half stifled by sobs of emotion, broke from the
listeners, as they rose and pressed around him. There he stood in the
midst, while like children they came to kiss his hand, to hear him speak
one word, even to look on him. Their swarthy faces, where hardship and
suffering had left many a deep line and furrow, beamed with smiles as he
turned towards them; and many a proud look was bent on the rest by those
to whom he addressed a single word.

One I could not help remarking above the others,--a slight, pale, and
handsome youth, whose almost girlish cheek the first down of youth was
shading. George leaned his arm round his neck, and called him by his
name, and in a voice almost tremulous from emotion: "And you, Bouvet de
Lozier, whose infancy wanted nothing of luxury and enjoyment, for whom
all that wealth and affection could bestow were in abundance,--how do
you bear these rugged reverses, my dear boy?"

The youth looked up with eyes bathed in tears; the hectic spot in his
face gave way to the paleness of death, and his lips moved without a
sound.

"He has been ill,--the count