e preservation of which his own life was
internally devoted.

But whither were they to turn?--The Countesses of Croye could neither
obtain shelter in Burgundy, from which they had fled, nor in France,
from which they had been in a manner expelled. The violence of Duke
Charles, in the one country, was scarcely more to be feared than the
cold and tyrannical policy of King Louis in the other. After deep
thought, Durward could form no better or safer plan for their security,
than that, evading the ambuscade, they should take the road to Liege
by the left hand of the Maes, and throw themselves, as the ladies
originally designed, upon the protection of the excellent Bishop. That
Prelate's will to protect them could not be doubted, and, if reinforced
by this Burgundian party of men at arms, he might be considered as
having the power. At any rate, if the dangers to which he was exposed
from the hostility of William de la Marck, and from the troubles in the
city of Liege, appeared imminent, he would still be able to protect
the unfortunate ladies until they could be dispatched to Germany with a
suitable escort.

To sum up this reasoning--for when is a mental argument conducted
without some reference to selfish consideration?--Quentin imagined that
the death or captivity to which King Louis had, in cold blood, consigned
him, set him at liberty from his engagements to the crown of France:
which, therefore, it was his determined purpose to renounce, The Bishop
of Liege was likely, he concluded, to need soldiers, and he thought
that, by the interposition of his fair friends, who now, especially the
elder Countess, treated him with much familiarity, he might get some
command, and perhaps might have the charge of conducting the Ladies of
Croye to some place more safe than the neighbourhood of Liege. And, to
conclude, the ladies had talked, although almost in a sort of jest, of
raising the Countess's own vassals, and, as others did in those stormy
times, fortifying her strong castle against all assailants whatever,
they had jestingly asked Quentin whether he would accept the perilous
office of their Seneschal, and, on his embracing the office with ready
glee and devotion, they had, in the same spirit, permitted him to kiss
both their hands on that confidential and honourable appointment. Nay,
he thought that the hand of the Countess Isabelle, one of the best
formed and most beautiful to which true vassal ever did such homage,
tremble