eed not bid you be discreet.

'There are some things that go too deep for speech,' sighed the almost
English Berenger; then, after a pause, 'Is there no hope for him? Is he
indeed dying?

'Without a miracle, he cannot live a month. He is as truly slain by the
St. Bartholomew as ever its martyrs were,' said Pare, moved out of his
usual cautious reserve towards one who had seen so much and felt so
truly. 'I tell you, sir, that his mother hath as truly slain her sons,
as if she had sent Rene there to them with his drugs. According as they
have consciences and hearts, so they pine and perish under her rule.

Berenger shuddered, and almost sobbed, 'And hath he no better hope, no
comforter?' he asked.

'None save good old Flipote. As you heard, the Queen-mother will not
suffer his own Church to speak to him in her true voice. No confessor
but one chosen by the Cardinal of Lorraine may come near him; and with
him all is mere ceremony. But if at the last he opens his ear and heart
to take in the true hope of salvation, it will be from the voice of poor
old Philippe.

And so it was! It was Philippe, who heard him in the night sobbing over
the piteous words, 'My God, what horrors, what blood!' and, as she took
from his tear-drenched handkerchief, spoke to him of the Blood that
speakth better things than the blood of Abel; and it was she who, in the
final agony, heard and treasured these last words, 'If the Lord Jesus
will indeed receive me into the company of the blest!' Surely, never
was repentance deeper than that of Charles IX.--and these, his parting
words, were such as to inspire the trust that it was not remorse.

All-important as Berenger's expedition had been, he still could think
of little but the poor King; and, wearied out as he was, he made very
little reply to the astonished friends who gathered round him on his
return. He merely told Philip that he had succeeded, and then lay almost
without speaking on his bed till the Ambassador made his evening visit,
when he showed him the two papers. Sir Francis could har