efforts, and, under the gloomy menace of the Inquisition,
some of the heretics renounced their errors. The fate of the captives
may be gathered from the indorsement, in the handwriting of the King, on
the back of the despatch of Menendez of December twelfth.

"Say to him," writes Philip II., "that, as to those he has killed, he
has done well, and as for those he has saved, they shall be sent to the
galleys."

Thus did Spain make good her claim to North America, and crush the upas
of heresy in its germ. Within her bounds the tidings were hailed with
acclamation, while in France a cry of horror and execration rose from
the Huguenots, and found an echo even among the Catholics. But the weak
and ferocious son of Catherine de Medicis gave no response. The victims
were Huguenots, disturbers of the realm, followers of Coligny, the man
above all others a thorn in his side. True, the enterprise was a
national enterprise, undertaken at the national charge, with royal
commission, and under the royal standard. True, it had been assailed in
time of peace by a power professing the closest amity. Yet Huguenot
influence, had prompted and Huguenot hands executed it. That influence
had now ebbed low; Coligny's power had waned; and the Spanish party was
ascendant. Charles IX., long vacillating, was fast subsiding into the
deathly embrace of Spain, for whom, at last, on the bloody eve of St.
Bartholomew, he was destined to become the assassin of his own best
subjects.

In vain the relatives of the slain petitioned him for redress; and had
the honor of the nation rested in the keeping of her king, the blood of
hundreds of murdered Frenchmen would have cried from the ground in vain.
But it was not so to be. Injured humanity found an avenger, and outraged
France a champion. Her chivalrous annals may be searched in vain for a
deed of more romantic daring than the vengeance of Dominic de Gourgue.

* * * * *

WEARINESS.

O little feet, that such long years
Must wander on through doubts and fears,
Must ache and bleed beneath your load!
I, nearer to the way-side inn
Where toil shall cease and rest begin,
Am weary, thinking of your road.

O little hands, that, weak or strong,
Have still to serve or rule so long,
Have still so long to give or ask!
I, who so much with book and pen
Have toiled among my fellow-men,
Am weary, thinking of your task.