 of the peace, even Berenger smiled at him for
thinking that such a being existed in France. The only cause alleged was
the vague but dangerous suspicion of conveying correspondence between
England and the heretics, and this might become extremely perilous to
one undeniably half English, regarded as whole Huguenot, caught on
the way to La Rochelle with a letter to La Noue in his pocket; and,
moreover, to one who had had a personal affray with a king famous for
storing up petty offences, whom the last poor king had favoured,
and who, in fine, had claims to estates that could not spared to the
Huguenot interest.

He was really not sure that there was not some truth in the professions
of the Chevalier being anxious to protect him from the Queen-mother and
the Guises; he had never been able to divest himself of a certain trust
in his old kinsman's friendliness, and he was obliged to be beholden
to him for the forms in which to couch his defence. At the same time he
wrote to Sir Francis Walsingham, and to his grandfather, but with great
caution, lest his letters should be inspected by his enemies, and with
the less hope of their availing him because it was probable that the
Ambassador would return home on the king's death. No answer could be
expected for at least a fortnight, and even then it was possible that
the Queen-mother might choose to refer the cause to King Henry, who was
then in Poland.

Berenger wrote these letters with much thought and care, but when they
were once sealed, he collapsed again into despair and impatience, and
frantically paced the little court as if he would dash himself against
the walls that detained him from Eustacie; then threw himself moodily
into a chair, hid his face in his crossed arms, and fell a prey to all
the wretched visions called up by an excited brain.

However, he was equally alive with Philip to the high-spirited
resolution that his enemies should not perceive or triumph in his
dejection. He showed himself at the noon-day dinner, before Captain
Delarue departed, grave and s