ke me home.

If I had one hundred men, I would fight my way out of this city, and to
you; but, dear, I have none, not even Gabord, who is not let come near
me. There is but Voban. Yet he will bear you this, if it be possible,
for he comes to-night to adorn my fashionable brother. The poor Mathilde
I have not seen of late. She has vanished. When they began to keep
me close, and carried me off at last into the country, where we were
captured by the English, I could not see her, and my heart aches for
her.

God bless you, Robert, and farewell. How we shall smile, when all this
misery is done! Oh, say we shall, say we shall smile, and all this
misery cease. Will you not take me home? Do you still love thy wife, thy

ALIXE?

I bade Voban come to me at the little house behind the church that night
at ten o'clock, and by then I should have arranged some plan of action.
I knew not whether to trust Gabord or no. I was sorry now that I had
not tried to bring Clark with me. He was fearless, and he knew the town
well; but he lacked discretion, and that was vital.

Two hours of waiting, then came a scene which is burned into my brain.
I looked down upon a mass of people, soldiers, couriers of the woods,
beggars, priests, camp followers, and anxious gentlefolk, come from
seclusion, or hiding, or vigils of war, to see a host of powers torture
a young girl who by suffering had been made a woman long before her
time. Out in the streets was the tramping of armed men, together with
the call of bugles and the sharp rattle of drums. Presently I heard the
hoofs of many horses, and soon afterwards there entered the door, and
way was made for him up the nave, the Marquis de Vaudreuil and his
suite, with the Chevalier de la Darante, the Intendant, and--to my
indignation--Juste Duvarney.

They had no sooner taken their places than, from a little side door near
the vestry, there entered the Seigneur Duvarney and Alixe, who, coming
down slowly, took places very near the chancel steps. The Seigneur was
pale and stern, and carried himself with great dignity. His glance never
shifted from the choir, where the priests slowly entered and took their
places, the aged and feeble bishop going falteringly to his throne.
Alixe's face was pale and sorrowful, and yet it had a dignity and
self-reliance that gave it a kind of grandeur. A buzz passed through the
building, yet I noted, too, with gladness that there were tears on many
faces.

A figure stol