rms our theme; and still placid as ever is
the valley, brightly as ever flows the stream. Even now, as in that
vanished, but never-forgotten time, nestles the little city in the angle
of the two rivers; still directly over its head seems to hang in mid-air
the massive and frowning fortress, like the gigantic helmet-in the
fiction, as if ready to crush the pigmy town below.

It was this famous citadel, crowning an abrupt precipice five hundred
feet above the river's bed, and placed near the frontier of France, which
made the city so important, and which had now attracted Don John's
attention in this hour of his perplexity. The unexpected visit of a
celebrated personage, furnished him with the pretext which he desired.
The beautiful Margaret of Valois, Queen of Navarre, was proceeding to the
baths of Spa, to drink the waters. Her health was as perfect as her
beauty, but she was flying from a husband whom she hated, to advance the
interest of a brother whom she loved with a more than sisterly
fondness--for the worthless Duke of Alencon was one of the many
competitors for the Netherland government; the correspondence between
himself and his brother with Orange and his agents being still continued.
The hollow truce with the Huguenots in France had, however, been again
succeeded by war. Henry of Valois had already commenced operations in
Gascony against Henry of Navarre, whom he hated, almost as cordially as
Margaret herself could do, and the Duke of Alencon was besieging Issoire.
Meantime, the beautiful Queen came to mingle he golden thread of her
feminine intrigues with the dark woof of the Netherland destinies.

Few spirits have been more subtle, few faces so fatal as hers. True child
of the Medicean mother, worthy sister of Charles, Henry; and
Francis--princes for ever infamous in the annals of France--she possessed
more beauty and wit than Mary of Scotland, more learning and
accomplishments than Elizabeth of England. In the blaze of her beauty,
according to the inflated language of her most determined worshiper, the
wings of all rivals were melted. Heaven required to be raised higher and
earth made wider, before a full sweep could be given to her own majestic
flight. We are further informed that she was a Minerva for eloquence,
that she composed matchless poems which she sang most exquisitely to the
sound of her lute, and that her familiar letters were so full of genius,
that "poor Cicero" was but a fool to her in the sa