lovely dames and gallant gentlemen greeted
the arrival of the bridal-party from La Pontoise, and if the shrinking
bride attracted attention, her emotion was attributed to maiden shyness,
none dreaming that a desperate terror was shaking that harassed heart.

At noon the preliminary observances were concluded, the assembly moved to
the chapel, and the bishop of Nemours advanced to the altar to unite Raoul
Boismonard du Guesclin and Therese Chiron de la Peyronie in the holy
bonds of wedlock. The bridal pair knelt before him, the solemn office of
the Church began, when the sharp ring of a horse's hoof struck the stones
of the courtyard, and the breathless hush of the sacred place was broken
as the betrayed lover burst into the chapel.

With an agonizing cry the bride flew to his arms, and, moved by an
instinctive impulse, he turned to bear his beloved away. One instant the
count stood fast, clutching the hilt of a dainty rapier at his side, the
gift of the king. The next that delicate blade flashed from its jewelled
sheath, drove through the body of Henri de Foix, and pierced to the heart
the unhappy girl clinging to his breast.

The wedding-guests scattered in consternation; the friends of the murdered
lovers took up their dead and departed; the master of Courance summarily
dismissed every living creature from the place, instructed the intendant
to close the chateau, and at nightfall he too left his home, to return no
more. His final command, made imperative and solemn, was that no human
being should ever be permitted to come within the walls of the park.

From Paris he sent back an express bearing a royal mandate repeating and
confirming his injunction prohibiting entry to Courance. Then passed into
oblivion Raoul Boismonard du Guesclin, count de Courance. The last
descendant of the warlike constable, the only representative of a long
line of soldiers and statesmen, closed his life in impenetrable obscurity,
and with him one of the great historic families of the realm disappears
from the annals of France.

JOHN V. SEARS.

THE MARSH.

Safely moored on the dappled water,
The broad green lily-pads dip and sway,
While like a skipper a gray frog rides
The biggest leaf in the tiny bay.

Merrily leap the brown-cheeked waves
To seize the sunlight's liberal gold,
Which strays and wanders among the reeds,
And on the stones of the beach is rolled.

O'er marish meadow