ull height, and
leaning fondly against La Mole--"if any one have erred, it is I, and I
alone. It was I chose him _forth_ as the noblest, the brightest, the
best among those who glittered about the court, in which we humbly
lived. I had given him my heart ere he had deigned to cast a look upon
me. If I have loved him--if I love him still--it is because I alone have
sought it should be so."

"Jocelyne! be still, sweet girl," said La Mole, affected, and moving
towards the door.

"And were he our bitterest enemy," continued the excited girl, still
clinging to his arm, "he is now a proscribed fugitive--no matter
why--God sends him to us--and it is ours to save, not to condemn him."

"But it is said, that the enemy of the righteous shall perish from the
earth," said her grandmother sternly; "it is not I condemn or kill him.
If it be the will of God that his cause of error cease, let him go forth
and die."

"If he die, mother," exclaimed Jocelyne with energy, "I shall die too. I
have given him my heart, my life, my soul--punish me as you
will--trample me at your feet. But I love him, mother; and, if you drive
him forth to be hunted by his enemies to the death, your child will not
survive it."

Alayn had turned away in bitterness of heart, and the old Huguenot
woman, although giving way more and more to that excitement, which, at
times, fully troubled her reason, only wrung her hands, as if moved by
the address of the agitated girl.

"Stay! stay, Monseigneur," continued Jocelyne, as La Mole again pressed
her hand and turned to depart. "She relents--she has a kind heart; and
she would not, surely, deliver up the guest who begs shelter at her
threshold, into the hands of those who seek to capture and to kill him."

"Let me go forth, Jocelyne! farewell!" repeated La Mole.

"Mother!" again commenced the unhappy girl, throwing herself down to
clasp the knees of her grandmother, who, overcome by the violence of her
feelings, had sunk back again into her chair. "Mother! would your
husband, or your son, have driven even their deadliest enemy from their
door?"

"Speak not of my son, girl; or you will drive me mad!" cried Perrotte,
clasping her hands before her face.

Jocelyne sprang up with a look of despair, and returned to detain once
more La Mole.

As they thus stood, and before the old woman had again stirred, or Alayn
interfered, a rumour from the street formed by the bridge, caught the
ear of the excited girl.

"W