So sang Lucette,—or, rather, such is a very poor translation of her song. At the best it was but an old ditty, composed probably by some of the early Protestants of France. It may have been written by Clement Marot, or his friend, the poet and printer, Lyon Jamets, for aught I know. It is so long since I have read the works of either that I have forgotten somewhat more than half of all their pens produced.

However, so sang Lucette in the chamber now assigned to Edward Langdale, while Marton sat beside her, knitting, and from time to time fixing her eyes upon the face of the invalid.

It may seem strange that Lucette should choose such a time and such a place to indulge in music, though her voice was marvellously sweet and had been cultivated to a degree rare in those days, and though people who have sweet voices, well cultivated, and, moreover, the love, the spirit, the inspiration of music in them, are fond of breaking forth into song at very unseasonable times.

But, as it happened, it was not an unseasonable time, as Lucette herself explained to Clement Tournon. When she turned her head, after her song had ended, to take up her embroidery-frame, she saw the old syndic standing in the doorway, looking somewhat surprised to hear her voice then and there, but perfectly quiet and still. Without a word, she rose and noiselessly approached the door, saying, in a very low voice, "He is better. He has been speaking sensibly; but he grew drowsy after a moment and fell asleep quite calmly, murmuring, 'Sing to me, mother; sing to me,'—as if he did not well know where he was. So I thought it best to humor him."

"You did right, my child," replied the syndic, putting his hand upon her head, round which the light-brown hair with golden gleams upon it was wound in many a long, silky tress. "The doctor is below: I hear his step coming along the passage."

Why all doctors should have creaking shoes I never could divine; but it is clearly an idiosyncrasy. They cannot help it. Perhaps the leather gets affected by the close air of sick men's chambers; perhaps it becomes imbued with sighs and groans,—a novel sort of tanning, but one well calculated to give a creaking sound; or perhaps the doctors themselves carry so far the necessary precaution of warming their nethermost coverings that the material becomes too dry and cries out for very thirst.

However that may be,—and I will not venture to decide the question,—Dr. Cavillac's shoes did creak most lamentably; but they had no effect upon the slumber of the poor invalid.

The doctor, the syndic, and Lucette spoke together for a few moments at the door; but Cavillac did not go in. It is likely that he was conscious of noisy feet. "It is critical," he said: "do not disturb him for the world; let him sleep as long as he will. Let him be well watched; and, when he wakes, speak low and gently to him; give him a few spoonfuls of good old wine, (for he will be as weak as a child,) and then let me know. You had better watch, my pretty Lucette, for there is no such good nurse as a young girl with a kind heart,—except an old woman who does not drink; and she is apt to have the rheumatism."

"But, doctor, Lucette must have repose, and these sleeps sometimes last very long," said Clement Tournon. "I must not; I am bound not to let fatigue affect her own health."

"I am not the least tired, dear father," said Lucette, with a bright look. "His first sensible word did me more good than a whole night's sleep. Do you think, doctor, that he will wake in his right mind again?"

"Certainly, my dear," answered the other. "I am sure he will; but his recovery may be slow and will require much care."

"Then I will watch till he does wake," answered the beautiful young girl. "I will watch as hopefully as ever Egyptian did to hear the morning voice of Memnon."

"Listen to the little pagan!" said Cavillac, with a smile. "But I will tell you a better plan, my child. He certainly will not wake for some hours. You may see that by his great paleness. You go and lie down for a short time; then let Marton call you. Come with me, syndic: I wish to speak with you." And he drew the old man to the top of the stairs.

"Have you heard," he said, "that the cardinal has sent down a thousand men to complete the lines round about us? This is growing serious."

"It is indeed!" said Clement Tournon, with a very sad look; "and those rash men, either from obstinacy and over-confidence, or jealousy and perhaps treachery, rejected yesterday the offer of succor from England, and the fleet has sailed away."

"We should have had a hospital for fools long ago," said Cavillac. "It is the great want of the city. But there are other things to be attended to now. Send out everywhere for stores, my good friend, if you spend the last livre of the city money. Depend upon it, this cardinal will try to starve us out."

"He cannot do that while our port is open," answered the syndic.

"How long will it be open?" asked the physician, with a very meaning look. "I have heard a whisper, my friend, that he will find means to close it, either by a fleet from all the neighboring ports, or in some other way. Look to it; look to it. There is less time to spare than the men of Rochelle fancy."

Thus saying, he left Clement Tournon meditating in no very hopeful mood over the state of the city, and the prospect, clear as a picture to his calm reasoning eye, of all those horrors that were but too soon to fall upon unhappy Rochelle. The house soon fell into profound silence: the hours of labor were over, the sounds of hammer, tongs, and file were still, and in about an hour Clement Tournon took his place by Edward Langdale's bedside, sending good old Marton to seek some repose herself. Twilight faded away into darkness; a little silver lamp was trimmed and shaded in the corner of the chamber, and two or three hours passed in silence, the good old man nodding from time to time, but never giving way to sleep.

At length the light step of Lucette was heard in the deep stillness,—it would not have been heard had there been the buzzing of a fly,—and, approaching the bed, she gazed and listened.

"He lies sleeping sweetly," she said to the old man. "How differently he breathes now! I can hardly hear him. Marton will be here in a minute. Leave him to us, father, and take some rest yourself."

"As soon as she comes," answered the syndic. "What is the hour?"

"The great clock has just struck one," answered Lucette.

"I was drowsy, and did not hear it," said the syndic. "Have the wine near, Lucette, and give him a spoonful at once when he wakes."

He made a movement toward the other side of the room as he spoke, and Lucette took his place in the large chair; but hardly was she seated when a voice was heard from the bed which made her start. "Where am I?" asked Edward Langdale: "what has happened to me?"

"You are with dear friends," replied the sweet voice of Lucette at once. "You have met with a little accident, but you are recovering fast. Here; take a spoonful of wine. The doctor orders it."

"I will take any thing you give me," said the lad, "for I feel very weak."

"Hush! silence! silence!" said Lucette, in a low but cheerful tone: "you are to keep quite quiet, and take some wine from time to time, and try to sleep again. To-morrow you will be quite well, I doubt not."

So saying, she poured the wine quietly between his lips; but the poor lad could not refrain from saying, "That is very nice; and you are very kind."

It is probable he would have added "and very beautiful," if he could have descried in the dim light more than the faint outline of that fair face and form; but Lucette replied, "I shall think you very unkind if you say one word more, except to ask for what you want."

"You understand it better than I do, Lucette, I see," said the old syndic, in a whisper. "Woman, woman! for such tasks no hands are like hers! But here comes Marton, and I will leave you."

The youth gazed after him as he departed, and looked at Marton curiously as she moved slowly about the room; but his eyes found something more satisfactory in the form of Lucette, although he could distinguish little except that there was something graceful and more of his own age before him, while from time to time she poured the wine between his lips. He was feeble, however, and inclined to sleep; and before good Dr. Cavillac, roused out of his bed, came to visit him, his eyes were again closed, and he had relapsed into slumber.

It is one of the strange but frequent results of disease or of accident of any kind which affects the brain, to blot out, as it were, from memory all the events which have taken place within a certain preceding period. It is sometimes a long, sometimes a short, period, according to circumstances not very easily reduced to any rule. I have known a man lose a language with which he had been for years familiar, and remember one which he had long forgotten. I have known memory acutely distinct in regard to events which had occurred a month or two before, and a perfect blank as to those more recent.

Edward Langdale recollected nothing after a certain period, when he had sped over from the town of Antwerp to London, bearing intelligence from the Lord Montagu to the Duke of Buckingham, although he had perfectly recovered his senses and some degree of strength, on the day following that night when the delirium first left him. By degrees, however, confused images of after-things began to present themselves: his voyage from Portsmouth, the storms which had baffled and delayed his course, even the approach to Rochelle, came back indistinctly. It only wanted, in fact, the ringing of the bell to cause the curtain of oblivion to rise, and the whole scene of the past to be revealed before the eyes of memory.

There is nothing in the physical world at all like the sudden flash of illumination carried along the many links which bind event to event in a chain almost invisible, except the operation of the electric telegraph. One touch applied, establishing the connection by the smallest possible point, and thought—living thought—flashes on to its object, setting at nought time and space and obstacle.

The connecting touch in the case of Master Ned was destined to be the sudden appearance in his chamber of our friend Pierrot, who came in both to see his young new master and to speak with good Clement Tournon. The syndic held up his finger to the man as he entered, as a warning not to trouble the young gentleman with speech, for the lad was still extremely weak and could hardly turn in his bed. But the moment Edward Langdale beheld him, he carried his hand suddenly to his head, saying, "Pierrot la Grange! Pierrot la Grange! I remember it all now. Good Heaven! and I have been lying here so long—God knows how long—and forgetting the message to Clement Tournon! I must get up and seek him. Pierrot, get me my clothes. I must get up."

"Lie still! lie still!" said the old syndic: "Clement Tournon is here, my young friend. I am he. But we can have no talk now, for the physician says you must still remain quite quiet and without agitation of any kind."

"If you be Clement Tournon," answered the youth, "it will agitate me more to be silent than to speak; but speak I must, if I die. Come hither, nearer, I pray you, sir. Bend down your head. Do you remember certain pendants of diamonds and the man you made them for? If so, give his name in a low voice."

"The most gracious Duke of Buckingham," said the syndic, in a whisper.

"Then he bids me tell you," said Master Ned, "that his brother-in-law, the Earl of Denbigh, will be here in three days with a puissant fleet, and he begs you to prepare the minds of the citizens to give him a worthy reception, for he hears you are somewhat divided here. I have more to say; but that is the burden of it all. Pray lose no time. Good Heavens! three days! How long have I been here?"

Clement Tournon's face assumed an expression of deep and even painful thought for one moment; but he replied, in a calm, well-assured tone, "Give yourself no uneasiness, my son. The whole has been settled, notwithstanding the accident that happened to you. We will talk about these matters more to-morrow. At present I must leave you, for I have business of importance to transact; but Marton will tend you carefully, and Lucette will come and sing to you, if you like it."

Do not let us pause upon the convalescence of our young friend; but for the present at least let us follow Clement Tournon's movements, which had some results at an after-period. He took his course straight to the city prison, into the dark mysteries of which we need not pry.

Every prison was in those days hideous, and this, like others, had its dungeons and cells, one hour's tenancy of which was a punishment hardly merited by aught but murder. There was, moreover, what we should now call a justice-room in the jail,—at least, a place where justice or injustice was administered, according to the character of the functionary who presided.

Here Clement Tournon seated himself by the side of one of the other magistrates of the town, and Tom the sailor was brought before them. He was followed by one of his companions, and by the captain of the little vessel, which still lay in the port, while the two tradesmen who had witnessed the assault were likewise present. The faces of the two magistrates were grave and even stern, and probably had Master Tom shown a swaggering and insolent air, such as he not unfrequently bore, they might have dealt hardly with him. But Tom was one of those men whom we not unfrequently meet with, and though apt to bully and even to fight when he thought there was some advantage on his side, he was easily cowed and depressed when he knew or believed that there were odds, or even equality, on the other side. Besides, he had now been kept for several days in what modern writers would call a loathsome cell, fed upon bread and water, and had no companion but solitude. Now, beef and good company are great promoters of swagger, and the absence of both had terribly reduced Tom's usual tone. He was indeed inclined to whimper, pleaded that he and Master Ned had quarrelled on board ship, that Ned had attempted to draw sword upon him, and that he himself had been drinking when he struck the blow. These excuses availed him little with the magistrates; and, strange to say, he found no support either from his captain or the man who had been his companion. The latter bore testimony that when he first laid hands on the lad's shoulder he told him "that he had got him safe on shore now, and would thrash him soundly;" and the captain merely said, "I trust your honors will liberate this man and put him in my hands. I warned him more than once on the voyage to let the young gentleman alone. I suspect he has done more mischief than he knows; and if you give him up to me I will put him in irons till I get home, and then make him over to those who will deal with him severely enough."

"The young gentleman is in a fair way of recovery," replied the syndic, who understood the language in which the skipper spoke; "but a serious offence has been committed in the streets of the city of Rochelle; and we should certainly punish this man ourselves were it not for the honor and respect which we bear the King of England. Much mischief he certainly has done,—as those who sent Master Edward Langdale hither will probably know by this time. But, captain, if you demand the prisoner in the name of King Charles, and promise to convey full intelligence of all that has occurred to those who are best qualified to judge of the case, and moreover to give this man up to them, I will speak with my friend here, who understands no English, but who probably will agree with me that our reverence for your sovereign requires us to follow your suggestion."

The captain willingly promised all that was demanded, and sealed his assurance with an oath; and the prisoner was then placed in his custody.

"And now, captain, when do you set sail?" asked Clement Tournon. "The wind is now fair, and the weather fine."

"I cannot go before Master Ned tells me," said the captain. "My cutter is to be at his orders till he has done with her."

"I know not that he can yet write even his name," said the syndic; "but you can come up to my house, where he now lies, this evening, and if the physician permits he can speak with you."

"See what you have done, you d——d scoundrel!" said the captain, turning sharply toward Tom. "I will be up at your house, sir, by five, and hope the young gentleman will let me go, for I am tired of this voyage."

The following morning, at daybreak, the little craft got under way, bearing a letter in Clement Tournon's hand; and Edward Langdale remained alone in France.

CHAPTER VII.

Oh, the calm lapses in the turbulent and turbid stream of life which Heaven sometimes graciously affords us,—the short breathing-spaces in the race,—the still pauses in the battle,—how sweet, how comforting they are! Such a pause had fallen upon the city of Rochelle and all its inhabitants. True, there were individual griefs and sufferings: the door of the closet with the skeleton in it can never be altogether shut. But to the city generally, and to its denizens generally, there was a lull in the storm. It was nowhere more pleasantly felt than in the house of good old Clement Tournon. He was a calm—a very calm—man; had been so all his life. He had met with sorrows which had touched him deeply; but he had borne them calmly. He had known pleasures; but he had enjoyed them calmly. He had mingled with angry parties, and seen strife and blood-shed; but he had been calm through all; and that very calmness—which, by-the-way, is one of the most impressive qualities in regard to our fellow-men which any one can possess—had won for him great reverence upon the part of his neighbors.

Young Edward Langdale, too, shared in the temporary tranquillity. "Sweet are the uses of adversity." It is a good text, and a true one also, if we use the adversity wisely; but sometimes we do not; and, although Master Ned had known more adversity than most youths of his age, we must acknowledge that he had found it all very severe, and had not had wisdom enough to discover honey in the stony rock. He had been hardened, sharpened, rendered stern, in the rough school through which he had passed. His character must have seemed to the reader somewhat harsh and remorseless; at least so I intended it to appear. But he had now suffered a long and heavy sickness: his frame was still feeble; his activity, for the time at least, was lost; and some traits in his character which seemed to have been smothered by coarser things revived and shone out. There was a latent poetry in his nature, a love and appreciation of all that was beautiful, a sense of harmony, and a delight in music, together with those strong affections which are so often combined with strength of character. These, in the body's feebleness, asserted their power. Strange how the corporeal and the mental wage such continual warfare upon each other! But even at times when the bodily force and the strong will had possessed the most perfect sway, and given him command and rule over men much older and higher than himself, those qualities of heart and mind, though latent, had acted unseen to win affection also.

Six days after his arrival in Rochelle, the little saloon in Clement Tournon's house presented as calm and pleasant a scene as ever the eye rested upon. There was the old man himself, with his small velvet cap upon his head; and there was Master Ned, leaning back in a large chair, with the hue of returning health coming back into his cheek,—always a pleasant sight; and there was beautiful Lucette, who had just been singing to the two, and who was now sitting on a low footstool, with her fair, delicate hand resting on the head of a lute. A beautiful silver lamp, with three burners,—modelled from those graceful lamps which we see in the hands of the Tuscan peasantry,—gave light to the chamber; for the wax tapers in two exquisitely-wrought candlesticks had been extinguished to save the eyes of Master Ned from the glare; and a water-pitcher and goblet, finely shaped from the antique and covered with grotesque figures, stood on a little table at the youth's left hand, to cool his lips, still dry and hot from his recent illness.

The eyes of Edward Langdale were fixed upon those specimens of the old syndic's art, and he was expressing his admiration of the delicacy and fineness of the designs, when Lucette observed, quietly, "He has much more beautiful things than those, Master Ned. I wish, father, I might bring and show him the pyx that was sent from Rome."

"Do so, my child," said Tournon. "And hark, Lucette——"

He whispered a word in the young girl's ear, and she left the room, but returned in a minute or two, bringing with her two objects in soft leathern covers,—one of which was a pyx, probably from the hands of Benvenuto Cellini.

Edward took it from her hands and admired it greatly, gazing at the various curious arabesques with which it was decorated, and at the medallions displaying exquisitely-chiselled figures, while the old syndic untied the other cover, and took forth a large cup, or hanap, of pure gold, ornamented by a row of precious stones encircling it in a sort of garland, which again was supported by some beautiful sculptured figures. Master Ned rose feebly to lay the pyx upon the table, but the moment his eyes lighted on the cup he stood still, gazing at it as if sight had suspended every other faculty. "Good Heaven!" he exclaimed, at length, addressing the merchant, who was watching him closely: "where did you get that?"

"I bought it some four years ago, when I was in England," answered Clement Tournon. "Something seems to surprise you. Did you ever see it before?"

"See it!" exclaimed Master Ned. "Yes, often, my good friend,—ay, several times every year, since I could see any thing, till just four years ago last Martinmas. Every birthday—every festival-day—it was brought forth; for it must be the same. Oh, yes! Is there not 'Edward Langdale' engraved on one side of the foot, and 'Buckley Hall' upon the other?"

"There is," said the syndic; "and that is the very reason I told Lucette to bring it. I wished to ask you if you are any relation of those Langdales of Buckley Hall. Edward Langdale! The two names are the same."

"They are, indeed," said Master Ned. "That cup is mine, my good friend: at least, it ought to be,—it and much more which is now lost to me forever."

"If it ought to be, it is thine still, my son," said the old syndic. "Now, God forbid that I should withhold the rightful property of another! But tell us how all this happened. Let me hear what you can recollect of your own life and fate. I know something of Buckley Hall, for it was in Huntingdon that I bought that cup. I would not purchase it at first, because I thought it was stolen,—most likely from the court of King James, who was then at Royston; but the goldsmith who had it told me that he had bought it fairly from Master Richard Langdale, the owner, and showed me a receipt for the money. I would fain hear how all this happened."

"Not to-night; not to-night," answered the youth. "The sight of that cup has shaken me much, my father; and to speak of those days would shake me still more in my weak state. To-morrow I shall be stronger, I trust; and then I will tell you all. I have often thought it would do me good if I were to talk over the whole of those sad things with some one; for they only seem to rankle and fester in the silence of my own bosom, and to make me reckless and ill-tempered. But I must get a little better and stronger first. Now I think I will go to bed."

He turned to go, but then paused, and, taking up the cup, gazed at it earnestly for several minutes, saying, "I was just nine years old when my father had my name engraved on it and gave it to me on my birthday, bidding me never to fill it too full nor empty it too often."

"Wise counsel," said the old man; "but, if it be thine, take it, my son. I am not a receiver of stolen goods."

"No," said Edward Langdale. "You knew not that he who sold it had no right to do so; neither did he from whom you purchased it. Orphans are often wronged, Monsieur Tournon; but I ought not to have been wronged by him who wronged me. Well, to-morrow we will talk more of all these matters."

A little after nightfall on the following day, the same three sat together in the same room. There had been no music, however, that evening; and Lucette was leaning her fair head upon the old merchant's knee. Edward Langdale was evidently stronger and better,—though he said he had slept but little. Yet there was more color in his cheek and lips, and his face and air had more their usual character of bold decisive frankness, than on the preceding night.

"Now I will tell you my whole story," he said, "beginning with my earliest recollections. Indeed, there is not much to tell, and it may be done very shortly."

MASTER NED'S HISTORY.

"Amongst the first of my remembrances is the burning of my father's house. I recollect the house itself quite well; and a very handsome place it was. There were four great octangular towers at the corners,—one on the southwestern side, all covered with ivy, in which a number of cream-colored owls used to make their abode during the day sunshine. A deer-park surrounded the house, full of fern and hawthorn-trees, and at the bottom of a bank was the highroad, with the river brawling and rushing on by its side.

"Of the interior of the house I do not remember much, although there is an impression on my mind of large rooms and furniture which had seen better days. Of the events which there took place I can recall nothing till the night of the fire,—the great fire, as it was called for many a year. And well it deserved the name; for in its progress it not only destroyed the house, but ate up the buttery, which was detached, and consumed the farm-buildings and stabling, in which were lost many fine horses and an immense quantity of agricultural produce.

"I remember on that night, the 18th of August, being startled out of my sleep by loud cries and shrieks and all sorts of noises,—especially a rushing, roaring sound, which frightened me more than all the rest. I was a boy about seven years old at the time; and sleep clings to one at that age like a tight garment, so that though I was as it were roused, and even alarmed, I was half asleep still. It was more like an ugly dream than a reality; and perhaps I might have lain down and fallen into sound slumber again, had not some one suddenly thrown open the door, rushed to the bed, and caught me up in her arms. I saw not distinctly to whose bosom I was pressed, yet I felt sure. Whose could it be but a mother's? She ran wildly with me to the door and there made a short hesitating pause, then dashed along the corridor through flames and smoke, ran down the stone steps, out of one of the back doors, upon the smooth lawn behind, and laid me down under a large mulberry-tree. Hard by were several persons, weeping and wringing their hands; but amongst them was my little sister, some three years younger than myself. 'He is safe! he is safe!' cried my mother. 'Run, some one, and tell Sir Richard.'

"My father, who was at that time about forty years of age, joined us in a few minutes, kissed me and my mother, remarked that she was scorched a good deal and her beautiful hair much burned; but he left us speedily, and returned to see what could be done to save the valuable property in the house. I have been told since that he was evidently agitated and confused, and his orders contradictory, and that much more might have been saved if he had displayed more presence of mind. Corporeally, he was undoubtedly a very brave man, and had shown himself such; but he was not a man of ready action or strong determination. However, almost all the plate was saved, and some of the pictures, which were fine; but several boxes of papers of much importance, I am told, could not be found in the confusion of the moment, and were undoubtedly lost. Memory breaks off about that time; and I only remember that the whole house was burned, and the greater part of the walls fell in, with the exception of those of the ivy-tower, which were very ancient and much thicker than the rest. Even there the woodwork was all consumed, and the stairs fell, except where a few of the stone steps, about half-way up, still clung to the masonry.

"My father often talked of rebuilding the house; but I believe his finances had been previously embarrassed, and he had suffered a heavy loss. We went then to live at Buckley Hall, which had fallen to my mother from her uncle some two years before, and which was not many miles distant from the old house. It was a more modern building, with fine gardens, in stiff figures of all shapes, with urns, and fountains, and many quaint devices; but it had no deer-park, and I sadly missed the fern, and the hawthorn, and the wild broomy dells.

"My next remembrance is of being ill and confined to bed, and my mother singing to me as I began to grow a little better; and I recollect quite well her coming in one day, looking very anxious, and my asking her to sing, with all the thoughtless impatience of youth. Well, she sang; but the tears rolled down her cheeks; and when I was suffered to go out of my room I could find my little sister no more. I never saw her again; and she must have died, I suppose, of the same malady from which I had suffered. My mother's health waned from that hour, slowly,—so slowly as to be hardly seen to change between day and day,—but none the less certainly. Gentle and sweet, patient and uncomplaining, she would not burden any one even with a knowledge of what she felt. My father was all kindness to her and to me; but he was sometimes too light and thoughtless, I believe,—vowed that society would cheer her, and filled his house with company,—not always the most considerate or the most quiet. There was upon me, young as I was, an impression that my mother was not well, that she loved tranquillity, that noise disturbed her; and I did my best to keep still, and even silent, when I was near her. I would sit with her for hours, reading; for when we came over to Buckley we found a good teacher there, and I had rapidly learned to read. Then, when I could bear inactivity no longer, I would go out and get my pony, saddle him myself, and ride wild over the country, or wander about the gardens and think. I learned a good deal about this time; for my father was very expert in all manly exercises, and took a pleasure in teaching me, and the good parson of the parish—a very learned but singular man—took great care of my studies.

"At length, when I was about ten years old, the terrible moment came when I was to lose a mother. I will not dwell upon that sad time; but my heart seemed closed,—shut up. I cared for nothing,—loved nothing,—took no interest in any thing; and yet I was cast more than ever upon my own thoughts, for the good old parson, whose instructions might have afforded me some diversion for the mind, removed suddenly to a much better living, some fifteen miles distant.

"My father still gave me instruction in fencing, wrestling, the use of the broad-sword; but he gave them and I received them languidly. At length, one day, he said to me, 'Edward, you are sad, my boy; and it is time you should resume your studies. I shall be very lonely without you; but I think it will be better for you to go over to good Dr. Winthorne's, whom you love so well, and who, I am sure, will receive you as a pupil. We shall only be fifteen miles apart, and I can see you often.'

"I made no objection, for Buckley had grown odious to me: every thing there revived regrets: and in about a week I was quietly installed in the neat and roomy parsonage, the glebe and garden of which were bounded by the same stream which ran past the old house in which I was born. It had been there a brawling stream; but here, some ten miles farther down upon its winding course, it had become a slow and somewhat wide river.

"I wish I had time to tell you how I learned, and what I learned, under the good clergyman's instruction. He had his own notions—and very peculiar notions—in every thing. Latin and Greek he taught me; but he taught me French and Italian too,—and taught them all at once. His lessons were very short, for it was his maxim never to weary attention; but he took especial care that my bodily faculties should not lose any thing for want of exercise. He would say that he had known very clever hunchbacks and very learned and ingenious lame men, but that each of them had some peculiarity of judgment which showed that a straight intellect seldom inhabited a crooked body, or a strong mind a feeble one. He would make me wrestle and play at quoits and cudgels with plough-boys, shoot with the gamekeepers of neighboring estates, ride my pony over a rough country and dangerous leaps, and himself lead the way. He was a devout man, notwithstanding, and was highly esteemed by his parishioners, and by a small circle of noble gentlemen, to some of whom he was allied and who were not unfrequent guests at the parsonage. All this went on for about nine months, a considerable part of which time my father was absent from Buckley, travelling, as they said, for his health, in Italy, where he had spent some years when quite a young man. At length, when he returned, I went home to pass some time with him; but I found him not alone."

"Had he married again so early?" asked Clement Tournon, with a look of consternation.

"Oh, no!" replied Master Ned: "he never married again; but there was a young gentleman with him, some twenty-one or twenty-two years of age, tall, very handsome, but with a dark and heavy brow, which almost spoiled his beauty. He spoke English with a strong foreign accent, and had altogether the appearance of a foreigner. I naturally presumed he was a guest, and treated him as such; but it was evident that he was an exceedingly favored guest, and all the servants seemed to pay him the most profound attention. I know not why, but I speedily began to dislike him: perhaps it was a certain sort of patronizing air he assumed toward me,—not exactly that of an elder to a younger person, but that of a superior to an inferior. My father's conduct, too, was very strange. He did not introduce the visitor to me by name, but presented me to him, saying, 'My son Edward,' and during the rest of the day called him simply Richard. On the following morning I detected—or fancied I detected—the servants looking at me, watching me with an appearance of interest that almost amounted to compassion. They were all very fond of me, and each seemed to regard Master Ned—the only name I went by—as his own child; but when they now gazed upon me there was an air of vexation—almost of pity—on their faces, and once or twice I thought the old steward was about to tell me something of importance in private; but he broke off, and turned his conversation to common subjects.

"All this, however, was so disagreeable to me, that, after having stayed two days at Buckley, I returned to my old preceptor's house at Applethorpe, feeling more wretched than I had felt since the first sad shock of my mother's death.

"The same night, after supper, Dr. Winthorne questioned me closely as to my visit, and asked what had caused me to return so soon. Whether he saw any thing in my manner, or had heard of any thing from others, I did not know; but I told him all frankly, and he fell into a fit of thought which lasted till bedtime. On the following morning my studies, my exercises, and my amusements were renewed with increased activity. There was something more I wished to forget, as well as the irreparable loss of my mother; and I left not one moment unemployed. It was now the month of May, and the season had been both cold and rainy; but I never suffered either cold or rain, either snow or sleet, to keep me within-doors; and no naked Indian could be more hardy than I was. At length, some warm skies, with flying clouds and showers, came to cheer us; and, with my rod in my hand, I sallied forth one morning early to lure the speckled tyrants of the stream out of the water. I walked on with good success for about two miles, and arrived at a shadowy reach of the river, where it lapsed into some deep pools, and then, tumbling over a shelf of rock in a miniature cascade, rushed on deep and strong toward the east. I have said I was early; but there was some one there before me. A powerful-looking man, of some four or five and twenty years of age, was wading the stream with a rod in his hand and a pair of funnel-shaped boots upon his legs. Where he stood, the water did not come much above his knees; but I knew that a little farther on it deepened, and the bed of the stream was full of holes, in which the finest trout usually lay; but the stranger seemed a skilful angler, and, I doubted not, knew the river as well as I did. Not to disturb his sport, I sat quietly down on the bank and watched him. He was not very prepossessing in appearance, for his features were large and coarse, and though there was a certain sort of dignity about his carriage, yet his form was more that of a man accustomed to robust labor than to the more graceful sports of a gentleman. However, as I was gazing, he hooked a large fish, apparently somewhat too stout for his tackle; and, to prevent the trout from getting among the roots and stones while he played him, the fisherman kept stepping backward, with his face toward me and his back toward the deep run and the pool. 'Take care! take care!' I cried. But my warning came too late: his feet were already on the ridge of rock, and the next instant he fell over into the very deepest part of the water. He rose instantly, but whether he was seized with cramp, or that his large heavy boots filled with water, I know not; but he sank again at once with a loud cry, and I ran along the ridge of stone to give him help. The stream was much swollen with the late rains, and even there it was running very strong, so that I could hardly keep my footing; but I contrived to get to a spot near which he was just rising again, and held out the thickest end of my rod to him. It was barely within his reach; but he grasped it with one hand so sharply as almost to pull me over into the pool with him. I got my feet between two large masses of stone, however, and pulled hard, drawing him toward me till he could get hold of the rock with his hands. His safety was then easily insured; and I only remarked two things peculiar in his demeanor: one was, that he never thanked me; and the other, that in all the struggle he had contrived to retain his fishing-rod.

"'Can you not swim?' he asked, as soon as we had both reached the bank. I answered in the negative, and he added, 'Learn to swim. Please God, it may save your life some day. Learn to swim.' I offered to take him up to the parsonage that he might dry his clothes; but he refused, not very civilly; and then he asked my name, looking me very steadily in the face, without the slightest expression of gratitude for the aid I had rendered him, and no trace of either agitation or trouble from the danger he had run. 'You have kept your rod,' I said, 'but you have broken your line.'

"'I never let go my hold,' he answered; 'but, as you say, I have broken my line and lost my fish. Are you Sir Richard Langdale's son, the man up at Buckley?' I answered that I was, and in a few minutes after we parted. I did not forget his advice, however, for a part of every day during that summer I passed in the water, learning and practising the art of swimming, till none could swim better or longer. I have never seen that man since; but he has fully repaid my service by inducing me to learn that which has more than once been of great service to me.

"It was the month of October before I once more visited Buckley; and then my father sent for me. I found the same young man still there whom I had seen on my former visit; but now my father removed all doubt of who he was, by saying, 'Edward, it is time that you should know that this is your brother Richard,—your elder brother.'

"I need not dwell upon the mortification and annoyance which this announcement caused me. I was very young, as you may know when I tell you that this occurred about five years ago, and, though of a somewhat sensitive character, I might have thought little of the matter after the first shock, had my brother's manner pleased me, had he shown kindness or affection for me. But, with a sort of presentiment of what he was to become, I disliked him from the first; and he repaid me well, treating me with a sort of supercilious coldness I could not bear. On the morning of the fourth day, when he had gone out fowling with a number of servants and dogs, I went into my father's chamber and announced to him my intention of going back that morning to pursue my studies with good Dr. Winthorne. Perhaps my tone was somewhat too decided and imperative for one so young toward his father; but it certainly was respectful, and my father did not oppose my purpose. He merely spoke—almost in an apologetic manner—of my brother and myself, intimated that he saw my annoyance, and, attributing it to motives which had never crossed my mind, added, 'You will have fortune enough, Ned. You surely need not grudge your brother his share.' I did not reply; but his words set me musing, and, an hour after, I left Buckley and returned to Applethorpe. There, as before, I told my worthy preceptor all that had occurred, and he somewhat censured my conduct, but at the same time condoled with and comforted me. 'This young man,' he said, 'must be the son of an Italian lady, to whom, according to a vague rumor current about the time your father married your mother, he had been previously wedded in her own country. It was said her relations had separated her from him on account of his religion and had shut her up in a convent, where she had died of grief. What he said about your fortune being sufficient, alluded of course to the Buckley estate, which, being derived from your mother, must descend to you.'

"'I never thought of fortune,' I answered, 'and should be glad to have a brother whom I could love; but I cannot like this young man.'

"I had now seen my father for the last time in life. A quarrel, it would seem, took place between him and one of the gentlemen of the neighborhood, and about six months after the period of my visit they met and fought. Both were good swordsmen; and my father killed his adversary on the spot. He was much wounded in the encounter, however, and died some four-and-twenty hours after. Sir Richard, his son, had not thought fit to send for me; but, as soon as the news reached Applethorpe, Dr. Winthorne went over with me to Buckley. There a scene took place which I shall never think of without pain. My brother's whole thoughts were of the rich succession which had fallen to him. He had four or five lawyers with him, some from the country, others brought post-haste from London. He claimed the whole estates,—Buckley, and all that it contained; and his lawyers showed that, the estate having fallen to my mother after her marriage, without any deed of settlement having reserved it to herself and her heirs, it had passed in pure possession to my father, and descended to his eldest son. There was some dispute between him and Dr. Winthorne, who, with the village attorney, advocated my cause warmly; but in the end the good clergyman took my arm, saying, 'Come away, Edward: there are too many bad feelings here already: there will be more if we stay. Your brother, who strips you of your mother's fortune because she perhaps trusted too far his father and yours, cannot deprive you of Malden farm, which was left you by your great-uncle. Indeed, I will not believe that your father did not intend to do you justice. His last words to you implied it; and probably, Mr. Sykes, Sir Richard did make a will, which we must leave you to have produced, if there be one.'

"These last words were addressed to my firm friend, the village lawyer, who, though aged and a good deal deformed, wanted no energy. He had always loved my mother, and whenever I could I had sent him game and fish. I always see him when I am in England. But no will was ever found: proofs of my father's marriage to the Signora Laura Scotti were produced, and also of her death some five years before the marriage of my mother, and my brother Richard remained possessed of all that had once seemed destined for me. He found the property greatly encumbered, it is true, paid no debt that he could by any means evade, and, being naturally of a profuse and luxurious disposition, soon found it necessary to sell much plate and jewels, many of which, beyond doubt, were my mother's own. Among the rest must have gone the cup I saw last night. As for myself, the little farm of Malden was all that was left me, the annual income of which is not quite two hundred pounds a year,—enough, perhaps, for any right ambition; but I had been educated in high expectations, and I had received a shock which changed, or seemed to change, my whole nature.

"One night, when we had been talking of these things, Dr. Winthorne laid his hand upon my shoulder, saying, 'Ned, you must make yourself a name and an estate. There are two courses before you: either pursue your studies vigorously for a few years, and then go to the university and push your fortunes in the Church or at the bar, or put yourself in the way of another sort of advancement, and mingle in the strife of courts and camps. You have talent for the one if you choose to embrace it; your animal qualities may fit you for the other. If the latter be your choice, among my noble kinsfolks I can put you on the entrance of the road; but you are not a boy who can remain idle. Think over it till to-morrow at this hour; and then tell me of your resolve.'

"My determination was soon formed. I could not make up my mind, especially with the feelings that were then busy in me, to devote myself to mere dry and thoughtful studies; and I chose the more active scenes. The very next night Dr. Winthorne wrote to the Lord Montagu, distantly related to his mother, and in about two months after I received the appointment of gentleman-page in his household, the only path now open in England to honor and renown. In this career I have met with many vicissitudes, and have learned much in a harsher and sterner school than that of good Dr. Winthorne. I have not suffered, I trust, in mind or in body, and, if my character has been hardened, I do believe the change took place, not in the four last years of action and endeavor, but in the few months of suffering and endurance which immediately preceded and followed my father's death. Let it not be thought, my excellent friend, that in any thing I have said I wished to cast a reproach upon his memory. I am sure that he intended to secure to me what by right and equity was mine, whatever mere law may say; but probably the duel in which he fell was hasty; and it was a habit of his mind to put off both consideration and action as long as he could. Thought was a labor that troubled him, and he often would not see dangers because reflection upon the best way of meeting them would have been painful. As to my brother, I have never seen him again: I hear he has returned to Italy, there to spend what remains to him of his wealth. Thus, you see that, though that cup is mine by right, it is no more mine by law than the estate of Buckley, which has gone from me forever."

The old merchant mused, and Lucette exclaimed, eagerly, that Sir Richard Langdale's conduct was cruel and unjust; but Master Ned answered, very mildly,—more so, indeed, than he might have done had not sickness softened him,—"There is much that is both cruel and unjust in the law; but, when I think of the contrast between my home before and after he appeared in it, and when I think of what my own heart was before and after he put his icy hand upon it, how he took from it its gentleness, and its kindness, and its confidence, I cannot but believe he has been cruel, and, though the same blood may and does flow in our veins, his is mingled with another stream, which is noway akin to mine."

"You must take that cup, Master Edward," said the syndic. "I cannot keep it in conscience. Every time I saw it in the cupboard, I should——" But his sentence was broken in upon, and all discussion stopped, by the entrance of Marton, introducing a stout man in plain travelling-attire, who was a stranger at least to Edward Langdale.

CHAPTER VIII.

"He is still at Nantes," replied the visitor. "But I want some talk with you, Mr. Syndic, when I can have it alone; and it must be to-night, too, for I have to go on by to-morrow at daybreak, if I can get a boat."

The old man at once raised a candlestick from the table and led the stranger into another room, while Lucette and Edward remained together.

Now, the most natural thing in the world for a young lad between sixteen and seventeen, and a young girl a year or two younger, when so thrown upon their own resources, would have been to make love, or, at least, to fall into it; and there was also a strong incentive in the gratitude Edward felt for all Lucette's kind nursing and all the interest which Lucette had taken in his illness and recovery. But the truth must be told. They did not make love in any of the many ways in which that article is prepared in any of the kingdoms of the earth. Moreover, they did not fall in love in the least. I am sorry for it; for of all the sweet and charming things which this world produces, that which is scornfully called calf's love is the sweetest and most charming. If it has really any thing to do with a calf at all, it is the sweetbread. Oh, that early love! that early love! how pure, and tender, and soft, and timid, and bright, and fragrant, it is! It is the opening of the rose-bud of life, which may in after-times display warmer colors, give forth more intense odor, but loses in delicacy and grace with every petal that unfolds. But, as I have said, the truth must be told. They neither talked of love nor thought of love, although Lucette was very beautiful and believed Edward Langdale to be very handsome. She merely made him describe to her the scenes in which his youth had been spent. She talked to him of his mother, too; and he told her how sweetly that mother had sung, and said to her that Lady Langdale's voice was very like her own; and then he besought her to sing to him again; and she sang to please him; and they fell into thought, and spoke of a thousand things more, in which the reader would take no manner of interest, but which interested them so much that, when Clement Tournon returned, they fancied he had been gone but a few minutes; and he had been absent an hour and a half.

His visitor did not come back with him, for he had taken some supper and retired to rest; but the good old syndic's brow was gloomy, and the news he had received, whatever it was, did not seem to have been very favorable.

"To bed, to bed, Lucette!" said the old man: "we must not keep Master Ned up late o' night. He will soon have to go travelling again; and he must gather strength."

Lucette did not receive the intelligence that Ned must soon depart very sadly, though she would have very well liked him to stay. She laughed and kissed the old man, and ran away; but the syndic silently took hold of the youth's hand and prevented him from retiring till the bright girl was gone. "Stay a minute," he said, at length. "I have something to speak to you about. How do you feel your strength and health to-night?"

"Oh, much improved," replied Master Ned. "I shall be as strong as ever in a couple of days."

"That is well! that is well!" said Clement Tournon. "And whither do you turn your steps when you leave Rochelle?"

"I have to traverse the whole of France, and even to approach close to Paris," answered Master Ned; "for the end of my journey, as far as I yet know, is to be at Dammartin. First, however, I must go to Mauzé, where, I hear, the Duc de Rohan and Monsieur de Soubise are to be found. I have letters for each."

The reply seemed to puzzle the old man a little, for he shook his head, saying, "It will not do."

"Have they left Mauzé?" asked Edward. "This illness has been very unfortunate."

"If you do not find them there, you will hear of them," answered the syndic. "What I mean is, you cannot get straight to Mauzé. Things have changed since you arrived, my son. The Papist troops are between us and Mauzé; and you will have to make a long deviation from your way and come upon the castle from the north."

"So be it!" said Master Ned. "If we can but have a fair wind, we can get to Marans, and, running up the Sevres, reach Mauzé from the north. It is not much longer, if I recollect right. I would embark to-morrow morning, but I have still some preparations to make."

"You seem to know the country well, my son," said the old man, "and your scheme is a good one. But what preparations can you have to make?—not, indeed, that I would have you go too soon, lest your health should suffer. I should think as soon as you feel strong enough you will be all ready."

"Not quite, Monsieur Tournon," answered the lad. "I must follow my orders, and those I have are very reasonable commands. I have, as I just said, to cross three-quarters of France, which I could not do as an Englishman, since these last troubles, without a safe-conduct. One has been procured for me, however, from young Sir Peter Apsley, who obtained it in order to go to Geneva to study. He has changed his mind since, and I am to represent him; but, as there are mentioned in the paper a page and two servants, I must engage such followers of the most trusty character I can find. I have already got Pierrot la Grange, who is an adept at masquerading, and I did think of bribing Jargeau to accompany me; but I had some suspicions of him before I landed, and soon found that he is treacherous. I must therefore look for a man and a boy here to-morrow; and you must help me, my good father, for it is of much consequence that they should be trusty."

"They will soon be found," answered the syndic; "but I fear me you will be soon discovered, my son. This cardinal has eyes in every quarter, and almost, I might say, in every house. As to the page, I may have to think a little," and then he added, musingly: "Did pages wear long tunics, as in my young days, Lucette might do; but I doubt whether she would put on boys' clothes as they are worn now."

"Lucette!" exclaimed Edward Langdale, in a tone of unfeigned astonishment. "That would never do. She could not ride half through France at the pace I should have to go; and besides——But tell me, in the name of Heaven, could you part with her so easily and on such a journey?"

The old syndic smiled faintly, saying, "I could and must part with her whenever it is for her good, my son; but I did not propose she should go with you farther than Mauzé, where you would have to find another page. There she must go before Saturday, as I will explain. Listen; for it is fit you should know all that is going on here, that you may tell it to those whom you are about to see. I will make it all clear to you, and then I will go and consult my pillow till to-morrow morning. The king and the cardinal are determined to crush out Rochelle. We have stood a siege here before, and may perhaps do so now,—though I do not think it, for Richelieu is not following the rash measures of those who went before him. He has been hovering over this devoted city like an eagle over a hare half hidden in the brushwood, and now he is ready to swoop. They say that he and King Louis have been stayed at Nantes by some troubles in the court; but nothing is neglected: day by day the troops are gathering round, and we are now wellnigh hemmed in by land. The sea is still open to us; but I have learned from a sure hand this night that the cardinal has gathered together a navy of small armed vessels in all the neighboring ports,—Rochefort, Marennes, Royan, Bourgneuf, Painbœuf, and others. They will soon be off our harbor,—on Monday next, they say; and though, thank Heaven, we have ships and good ones, yet in point of numbers we are nothing. The foolish men of what they call the French party refused, as you know, to give entrance to the Earl of Denbigh's fleet, which would have kept the sea open to us and insured us against blockade forever. But, as things stand now, I cannot expose a girl like Lucette to the horrors of a siege with probably no escape. Indeed, every useless mouth we can remove from Rochelle the better for us; and, besides, those who have a right have required me to send her out of the city without loss of time."

"Had you not better go with her yourself?" asked Master Ned.

"I will not run away from my post," answered the syndic. "I once could have struck a good blow in defence of my native city; and, though that is past, I can still aid her with counsel. Besides, where could I go? Nowhere but to England. I may send what gold I have got to that country, if I can find means; but my fate is with Rochelle, and Lucette's must lie far away. God help us! we are at a dangerous pass, my son; and the hunter's toils are tighter round us than some of our senseless citizens will believe. As to Jargeau, you cannot trust him. Of Pierrot I have doubts,—not of his honesty, for he is truthful and sturdy when he is sober, nor of his ability, for he is a thing we often see in this strange world, a clever fool,—shrewd enough in every thing that imports but little, but weak as water in matters on which his own fortunes and his soul's salvation rest. I doubt his power to abstain from a vice which has ruled him for ten long years. True, he has been sober ever since he has been here, and he promises sturdily; but, alas! my son, I have seen so many a drunkard fall away from all good resolutions with the first moment of a strong temptation that I wish you had a better follower."

"I will keep him sober," answered Master Ned, boldly. "He knows I am not to be trifled with. I think he has every inclination to reform but only wants the strength of mind. I will give him the strength. Many a man is feeble in some point till he has support, just as a pea trails upon the ground till we plant a strong pole by it. I will be his pea-stick, Monsieur Tournon. But as to another man and the page. If Mademoiselle Lucette only goes to Mauzé, and you will trust her with me, I will see her safe there if I get there myself, upon my honor; but I know not why she should have to change her dress, for the distance is so small from Maran's that——"

"You may be stopped and have to show your safe-conduct," answered the syndic. "You know not how rapidly this cardinal is drawing the net around us. But surely we can equip her so that she shall remain concealed and yet not shock her modesty."

"Oh, yes," replied Master Ned: "'tis still the mode with us to wear a loose, long, hanging coat over the justaucorps in cool weather; and this is cool enough. I have one in my bags, and they are so freely fitted that it matters not whether it be somewhat large or not. But what I fear is her long, beautiful, amber hair. No boy's head ever bore such a profusion,—though it is the custom now to wear it very long behind."

"We must have it cut," said the syndic, with as little reverence for love-locks as any Puritanical preacher of the coming epoch: "a woman may well yield her hair to save her liberty and her religion,—nay, perhaps her life. But we will talk more to-morrow, my son, and we had better both seek rest now and rise by dawn to-morrow."

The results of this conversation may easily be divined by the reader, whose business it is, in a novel as well as in a tragedy, to supply from his own wit or imagination all the little facts and circumstances which it may please an author to omit. Yes, dear reader, always recollect that you have your responsibilities as well as your privileges, your duties as well as your powers, and then if you and I do not understand each other it is not your fault.

The following evening, about seven o'clock, there assembled in the little saloon, the syndic, Edward Langdale, a strong, supple-looking man, of whom more hereafter, Pierrot la Grange, and a beautiful boy, apparently some two years younger, and much shorter, than Master Ned. He entered the last, dressed in one of the broad-brimmed hats of the day, a handsome doublet, and a loose black velvet coat with hanging sleeves. It descended nearly to the knees, and almost met a pair of large riding-boots, which, together with the hat and feather, and a small gold-hilted dagger on the left hip, gave the wearer a sort of cavalier look which accorded well with the character assumed,—yes, assumed; for a warm mantling blush that spread over Lucette's fair face, and the shy impulse with which she threw herself into the old man's arms, would have betrayed her sex to any one who was not in the secret. Every thing, however, was now hurry, for a good-sized fishing-boat had been engaged for a somewhat earlier hour; and, with a few words of admonition to Lucette from the syndic, and some directions to the men, the whole party set out for the port. Marton gave them egress, kissing Lucette tenderly as she passed the door; and in ten minutes Clement Tournon held the young girl in his arms by the side of the boat, taking one last embrace. He wept not, it is true; but he heaved a heavy sigh. Edward Langdale lifted her into the little bark, and, as the boat pushed off, he felt that tears had fallen upon his bosom.