ng to force her way with an escort too large not
to attract notice, yet not warlike enough for efficient defence. He
offered no further opposition, but augured that after all she would come
back a fine lady, and right them all.

Eustacie, recovering from her anger, and recollecting his services, gave
him her hand to kiss, and bade him farewell with a sudden effusion of
gratitude and affection that warmed the honest fellow's heart. Rewards
could not be given, lest they should become a clue for her uncle; and
perhaps they would have wounded both him and their kind hosts, who did
their best to assist her in their departure. A hasty meal was provided
by Nanon, and a basket so stored as to obviate the need of entering a
village, on that day at least, to purchase provisions; Eustacie's money
and jewels again formed the nucleus of the bundle of clothes and spare
swaddling-banks of her babe; her peasant dress was carefully arranged--a
stout striped cloth skit and black bodice, the latter covered by a
scarlet Chollet kerchief. The winged white cap entirely hid her hair; a
gray cloak with a hood could either fold round her and her child or be
strapped on her shoulders. Her _sabots_ were hung on her shoulder, for
she had learnt to go barefoot, and walked much more lightly thus; and
her little bundle was slung on a staff on the back of Maitre Gardon,
who in his great peasant's hat and coat looked so like a picture of St.
Joseph, that Eustacie, as the light of the rising sun fell on his white
beard and hair, was reminded of the Flight into Egypt, and came close
to him, saying shyly, 'Our Blessed Lady will bless and feel for my baby.
She knows what this journey is.'

'The Son of the Blessed Mary assuredly knows and blesses,' he answered.

CHAPTER XIX. _LA RUE DES TROIS FEES_

And round the baby fast and close Her trembling grasp she folds.
And with a strong convulsive grasp The little infant holds.--SOUTHEY.

A wild storm had raged all the afternoon, hail and rain had careered on
the wings of the wind along the narrow street of the Three Fairies, at
the little Huguenot bourg of La Sablerie; torrents of rain had poached
the unpaved soil into a depth of mud, and thunder had reverberated over
the chimney-tops, and growled far away over the Atlantic, whose angry
waves were tossing on the low sandy coast about two miles from the town.

The evening had closed in with a chill, misty drizzle, and, almost May
though it were