ut on mourning, and falsely that she had hung the French
Ambassador, La Mothe Feneon. And Burleigh wrote to his old friend from
London, that some horrible carnage had assuredly taken place, and that
no news had yet been received of Sir Francis Walsingham or of his suite.

All these days seems so many years taken from the vital power of Lord
Walwyn. Not only had his hopes and affections would themselves closely
around his grandson, but he reproached himself severely with having
trusted him in his youth and inexperience among the seductive perils of
Paris. The old man grieved over the promising young life cut off, and
charged on himself the loss and grief to the women, whose stay he had
trusted Berenger would have been. He said little, but his hand and head
grew more trembling; he scarcely ate or slept, and seemed to waste from
a vigorous elder to a feeble being in the extremity of old age, till
Lady Walwyn had almost ceased to think of her grandson in her anxiety
for her husband.

Letters came at last. The messenger despatched by Sir Francis Walsingham
had not been able to proceed till the ways had become safe, and he had
then been delayed; but on his arrival his tidings were sent down. There
were letters both from Sir Francis Walsingham and from heart-broken
Mr. Adderley, both to the same effect, with all possible praises of the
young Baron de Ribaumont, all possible reproach to themselves for
having let him be betrayed, without even a possibility of recovering his
remains for honourable burial. Poor Mr. Adderley further said that Mr.
Sidney, who was inconsolable for the loss of his friend, had offered
to escort him to the Low Countries, whence he would make his way to
England, and would present himself at Hurst Walwyn, if his Lordship
could endure the sight of his creature who had so miserably failed in
his trust.

Lord Walwyn read both letters twice through before he spoke. Then he
took off his spectacles, laid them down, and said calmly, 'God's will be
done. I thank God that my boy was blameless. Better they slew him than
sent him home tainted with their vices.'

The certainty, such as it was, seemed like repose after the suspense.
They knew to what to resign themselves, and even Lady Thistlewood's
tempestuous grief had so spent itself that late in the evening the
family sat round the fire in the hall, the old lord dozing as one worn
out with sorrow, the others talking in hushed tones of that bright
boyhood, that