rs, who only
durst go about any of the French provinces in well-armed and large
parties.

The domains of King Rene, whether in Lorraine or Provence, were,
however, reckoned as fairly secure, but from the time the little troop,
with the princesses among them, had started from Nanci, Madame de Ste.
Petronelle became uneasy. She looked up at the sun, which was shining
in her face, more than once, and presently drew the portly mule she was
riding towards George Douglas.

'Sir,' she said, 'you are the ladies' squire?'

'I have that honour, Madame.'

'And a Scot?'

'Even so.'

'I ask you, which way you deem that we are riding?'

'Eastward, Madame, if the sun is to be trusted. Mayhap somewhat to the
south.'

'Yea; and which side lies Chalons?'

This was beyond George's geography. He looked up with open mouth and
shook his head.

'Westward!' said the lady impressively. 'And what's yon in the
distance?'

'Save that this land is as flat as a bannock, I'd have said 'twas
mountains.'

'Mountains they are, young man!' said Madame de Ste. Petronelle
emphatically--'the hills between Lorraine and Alsace, which we should be
leaving behind us.'

'Is there treachery?' asked George, reining up his horse. 'Ken ye who is
the captain of this escort?'

'His name is Hall; he is thick with the Dauphin. Ha! Madame, is he sib
to him that aided in the slaughter of Eastern's Eve night?'

'Just, laddie. 'Tis own son to him that Queen Jean made dae sic a
fearful penance. What are ye doing?'

'I'll run the villain through, and turn back to Nanci while yet there is
time,' said George, his hand on his sword.

'Hold, ye daft bodie! That would but bring all the lave on ye. There's
nothing for it but to go on warily, and maybe at the next halt we might
escape from them.'

But almost while Madame de Ste. Petronelle spoke there was a cry, and
from a thicket there burst out a band of men in steel headpieces and
buff jerkins, led by two or three horsemen. There was a confused outcry
of 'St. Denys! St. Andrew!' on one side, 'Yield!' on the other. Madame's
rein was seized, and though she drew her dagger, her hand was caught
before she could strike, by a fellow who cried, 'None of that, you old
hag, or it shall be the worse for thee!'

'St. Andrew! St. Andrew!' screamed Eleanor. 'Scots, to the rescue of
your King's sisters!'

'Douglas--Douglas, help!' cried Jean. But each was surrounded by a swarm
of the ruffians; and as George Dougla