erself, and this was well, for the King
came to visit her. Margaret was fond of her father-in-law, who had
always been kind to her; but she was too ill, and speech hurt her too
much, to allow her to utter clearly all that oppressed her.

'My sisters! my poor sisters!' she moaned.

'Ah! ma belle fille, fear not. All will be well with them. No doubt, my
good brother Rene has detained them, that Madame Eleanore may study a
little more of his music and painting. We will send a courier to Nanci,
who will bring good news of them,' said the King, in a caressing voice
which soothed, if it did not satisfy, the sufferer.

She spoke out some thanks, and he added, 'They may come any moment,
daughter, and that will cheer your little heart, and make you well. Only
take courage, child, and here is my good physician, Maitre Bertrand,
come to heal you.'

Margaret still held the King's hand, and sought to detain him. 'Beau
pere, beau pere,' she said, 'you will not believe them! You will silence
them.'

'Whom, what, ma mie?'

'The evil-speakers. Ah! Jamet.'

'I believe nothing my fair daughter tells me not to believe.'

'Ah! sire, he speaks against me. He says--'

'Hush! hush, child. Whoever vexes my daughter shall have his tongue slit
for him. But here we must give place to Maitre Bertrand.'

Maitre Bertrand was a fat and stolid personage, who, nevertheless, had
a true doctor's squabble with the Jew Samiel and drove him out. His
treatment was to exclude all the air possible, make the patient breathe
all sorts of essences, and apply freshly-killed pigeons to the painful
side.

Margaret did not mend under this method. She begged for Samiel, who had
several times before relieved her in slight illnesses; but she was given
to understand that the Dauphin would not permit him to interfere with
Maitre Bertrand.

'Ah!' she said to Dame Lilias, in their own language, 'my husband calls
Bertrand an old fool! He does not wish me to recover! A childless wife
is of no value. He would have me dead! And so would I--if my fame were
cleared. If my sisters were found! Oh! my Lord, my Lord, I loved him
so!'

Poor Margaret! Such was her cry, whether sane or delirious, hour after
hour, day after day. Only when delirious she rambled into Scotch and
talked of Perth; went over again her father's murder, or fancied her
sisters in the hands of some of the ferocious chieftains of the North,
and screamed to Sir Patrick or to Geordie Douglas to delive