Twilight began to deepen the mist.

The guide was evidently uneasy; he sidled up to Philip, and began

to ask what he--hitherto obstinately deaf and contemptuous to

French--was very slow to comprehend. At last he found it was a

question how near it was to All Soul's day; and then came an

equally amazing query whether the gentlemen's babe had been

baptized; for it appeared that on All Soul's day the spirits of

unchristened infants had the power of rising from the sands in a

bewildering mist, and leading wayfarers into the sea. And the poor

guide, white and drenched, vowed he never would have undertaken

this walk if he had only thought of this. These slaughters of

heretics must so much have augmented the number of the poor little

spirits; and no doubt Monsieur would be specially bewildered by one

so nearly concerned with him. Philip, half frightened, could not

help stepping forward and pulling Berenger by the cloak to make him

aware of this strange peril; but he did not get much comfort.

'Baptized? Yes; you know she was, by the old nurse. Let me alone,

I say. I would follow her wherever she called me, the innocent,

and glad--the sooner the better.'

And he shook his brother off with a sadness and impatience so

utterly unapproachable, that Philip, poor boy, could only watch his

tall figure in the wide cloak and slouched hat, stalking on ever

more indistinct in the gloom, while his much confused mind tried to

settle the theological point whether the old nurse's baptism were

valid enough to prevent poor little Berangere from becoming one of

these mischievous deluders; and all this was varied by the notion

of Captain Hobbs picking up their corpses on the beach, and of Sir

Marmaduke bewailing his only son.

At last a strange muffled sound made him start in the dead silence,

but the guide hailed the sound with a joyful cry---

'Hola! Blessings on Notre-Dame and holy Father Colombeau, now are

we saved!' and on Philip's hasty interrogation, he explained that

it was from the bells of Nissard, which the good priest always

caused to be rung during these sea-fogs, to disperse all evil

beings, and guide the wanderers.

The guide strode on manfully, as the sound became clearer and

nearer, and Philip was infinitely relived to be free from all

supernatural anxieties, and to have merely to guard against the

wiles of a Polish priest, a being almost as fabulously endowed in

his imagination as poor little Berangere's soul could be in that of

the fisherman.

The drenching Atlantic mist had wetted them all to the skin, and

closed round them so like a solid wall, that they had almost lost

sight of each other, and had nothing but the bells' voices to

comfort them, till quite suddenly there was a light upon the mist,

a hazy reddish gleam--a window seemed close to them. The guide,

heartily thanking Our Lady and St. Julian, knocked at a door, which

opened at once into a warm, bright, superior sort of kitchen, where

a neatly-dressed elderly peasant woman exclaimed, 'Welcome, poor

souls! Enter, then. Here, good Father, are some bewildered

creatures. Eh! wrecked are you, good folks, or lost in the fog?'

At the same moment there came from behind the screen that shut off

the fire from the door, a benignant-looking, hale old man in a

cassock, with long white hair on his shoulders, and a cheerful

face, ruddy from sea-wind.

'Welcome, my friends,' he said. 'Thanks to the saints who have

guided you safely. You are drenched. Come to the fire at once.'

And as they moved on into the full light of the fire and the rude

iron lamp by which he had been reading, and he saw the draggled

plumes and other appurtenances that marked the two youths as

gentlemen, he added, 'Are you wrecked, Messieurs? We will do our

poor best for your accommodation;' and while both mechanically

murmured a word of thanks, and removed their soaked hats, the good

man exclaimed, as he beheld Berenger's ashy face, with the sunken

eyes and deep scars, 'Monsieur should come to bed at once. He is

apparently recovering from a severe wound. This way, sir; Jolitte

shall make you some hot tisane.'

'Wait, sir,' said Berenger, very slowly, and his voice sounding

hollow from exhaustion; 'they say that you can tell me of my child.

Let me hear.'

'Monsieur's child!' exclaimed the bewildered curate, looking from

him to Philip, and then to the guide, who poured out a whole stream

of explanation before Philip had arranged three words of French.

'You hear, sir,' said Berenger, as the man finished: 'I came

hither to seek my wife, the Lady of Ribaumont.'

'Eh!' exclaimed the cure, 'do I then see M. le Marquis de Nid de

Merle?'

'No!' cried Berenger; 'no, I am not that scelerat! I am her true

husband, the Baron de Ribaumont.'

'The Baron de Ribaumont perished at the St. Bartholomew,' said the

cure, fixing his eyes on him, as though to confute an impostor.

'Ah, would that I had!' said Berenger. 'I was barely saved with

the life that is but misery now. I came to seek her--I found what

you know. They told me that you saved the children. Ah, tell me

where mine is!--all that is left me.'

'A few poor babes I was permitted to rescue, but very few. But let

me understand to whom I speak,' he added, much perplexed. 'You,

sir---'

'I am her husband, married at five years old--contract renewed last

year. It was he whom you call Nid de Merle who fell on me, and

left me for dead. A faithful servant saved my life, but I have

lain sick in England till now, when her letter to my mother brought

me to La Sablerie, to find--to find THIS. Oh, sir, have pity on

me! Tell me if you know anything of her, or if you can give me her

child.'

'The orphans I was able to save are--the boys at nurse here, the

girls with the good nuns at Lucon,' said the priest, with infinite

pity in his look. 'Should you know it, sir?'

'I would--I should,' said Berenger. 'But it is a girl. Ah, would

that it were here! But you--you, sir--you know more than these

fellows. Is there no--no hope of herself?'

'Alas! I fear I can give you none,' said the priest; 'but I will

tell all I know; only I would fain see you eat, rest, and be

dried.'

'How can I?' gasped he, allowing himself, however, to sink into a

chair; and the priest spoke:

'Perhaps you know, sir, that the poor lady fled from her friends,

and threw herself upon the Huguenots. All trace had been lost,

when, at a banquet given by the mayor of Lucon, there appeared some

patisseries, which some ecclesiastic, who had enjoyed the

hospitality of Bellaise, recognized as peculiar to the convent

there, where she had been brought up. They were presented to the

mayor by his friend, Bailli la Grasse, who had boasted of the

excellent confitures of the heretic pastor's daughter that lodged

in the town of La Sablerie. The place was in disgrace for having

afforded shelter and supplies to Montgomery's pirate crews, and

there were narrations of outrages committed on Catholics. The army

were enraged by their failure before La Rochelle; in effect, it was

resolved to make an example, when, on M. de Nid de Merle's summons,

all knowledge of the lady was denied. Is it possible that she was

indeed not there?'

Berenger shook his head. 'She was indeed there,' he said, with an

irrepressible groan. 'Was there no mercy--none?'

'Ask not, sir,' said the compassionate priest; 'the flesh shrinks,

though there may be righteous justice. A pillaged town, when men

are enraged, is like a place of devils unchained. I reached it

only after it had been taken by assault, when all was flame and

blood. Ask me no more; it would be worse for you to hear than me

to tell,' he concluded, shuddering, but laying his hand kindly on

Berenger's arm. 'At least it is ended now and God is more merciful

than men. Many died by the bombs cast into to city, and she for

whom you ask certainly fell not alive into the hands of those who

sought her. Take comfort, sir; there is One who watches and takes

count of our griefs. Sir, turning to Philip, 'this gentleman is

too much spent with sorrow to bear this cold and damp. Aid me, I

entreat, to persuade him to lie down.'

Philip understood the priest's French far better than that of the

peasants, and added persuasions that Berenger was far too much

exhausted and stunned to resist. To spend a night in a Popish

priest's house would once have seemed to Philip a shocking

alternative, yet here he was, heartily assisting in removing the

wet garments in which his brother had sat only too long, and was

heartily relieved to lay him down in the priest's own bed, even

though there was an image over the head, which, indeed, the boy

never saw. He only saw his brother turn away from the light with a

low, heavy moan, as if he would fain be left alone with his sorrow

and his crushed hopes.

Nothing could be kinder than Dome Colombeau, the priest of Nissard.

He saw to the whole of his guests being put into some sort of dry

habiliments before they sat round his table to eat of the savoury

mess in the great pot-au-feu, which had, since their arrival,

received additional ingredients, and moreover sundry villagers had

crept into the house. Whenever the good Father supped at home, any

of his flock were welcome to drop in to enjoy his hospitability.

After a cup of hot cider round, they carried off the fisherman to

ledge in one of their cottages. Shake-downs were found for the

others, and Philip, wondering what was to become of the good host

himself, gathered that he meant to spend such part of the night on

the kitchen floor as he did not pass in prayer in the church for

the poor young gentleman, who was in such affliction. Philip was

not certain whether to resent this as an impertinence or an attack

on their Protestant principles; but he was not sure, either, that

the priest was aware what was their religion, and was still less

certain of his own comprehension of these pious intentions: he

decided that, any way, it was better not to make a fool of himself.

Still, the notion of the mischievousness of priests was so rooted

in his head, that he consulted Humfrey on the expedience of keeping

watch all night, but was sagaciously answered that 'these French

rogues don't do any hurt unless they be brought up to it, and the

place was as safe as old Hurst.'

In fact, Philip's vigilance would have been strongly against

nature. He never awoke till full daylight and morning sun were

streaming through the vine-leaves round the window, and then, to

his dismay, he saw that Berenger had left his bed, and was gone.

Suspicions of foul play coming over him in full force as he gazed

round on much that he considered as 'Popish furniture,' he threw on

his clothes, and hastened to open the door, when, to his great

relief, he saw Berenger hastily writing at a table under the

window, and Smithers standing by waiting for the billet.

'I am sending Smithers on board, to ask Hobbs to bring our cloak

bags,' said Berenger, as his brother entered. 'We must go on to

Lucon.'

He spoke briefly and decidedly, and Philip was satisfied to see him

quite calm and collected--white indeed, and with the old haggard

look, and the great scar very purple instead of red, which was

always a bad sign with him. He was not disposed to answer

questions; he shortly said, 'He had slept not less than usual,'

which Philip knew meant very little; and he had evidently made up

his mind, and was resolved not to let himself give way. If his

beacon of hope had been so suddenly, frightfully quenched, he still

was kept from utter darkness by straining his eyes and forcing his

steps to follow the tiny, flickering spark that remained.

The priest was at his morning mass; and so soon as Berenger had

given his note to Smithers, and sent him off with a fisherman to

the THROSTLE, he took up his hat, and went out upon the beach, that

lay glistening in the morning sun, then turned straight towards the

tall spire of the church, with had been their last night's guide.

Philip caught his cloak.

'You are never going there, Berenger?'

'Vex me not now,' was all the reply he got. 'There the dead and

living meet together.'

'But, brother, they will take you for one of their own sort.'

'Let them.'

Philip was right that it was neither a prudent nor consistent

proceeding, but Berenger had little power of reflection, and his

impulse at present bore him into the church belonging to his native

faith and land, without any defined felling, save that it was peace

to kneel there among the scattered worshippers, who came and went

with their fish-baskets in their hands, and to hear the low chant

of the priest and his assistant from within the screen.

Philip meantime marched up and down outside in much annoyance,

until the priest and his brother came out, when the first thing he

heard the good Colombeau say was, 'I would have called upon you

before, my son, but that I feared you were a Huguenot.'

'I am an English Protestant,' said Berenger; 'but, ah! sir, I

needed comfort too much to stay away from prayer.'

Pere Colombeau looked at him in perplexity, thinking perhaps that

here might be a promising convert, if there were only time to work

on him; but Berenger quitted the subject at once, asking the

distance to Lucon.

'A full day's journey,' answered Pere Colombeau, and added, 'I am

sorry you are indeed a Huguenot. It was what I feared last night,

but I feared to add to your grief. The nuns are not permitted to

deliver up children to Huguenot relations.'

'I am her father!' exclaimed Berenger, indignantly.

'That goes for nothing, according to the rules of the Church,' said

the priest. 'The Church cannot yield her children to heresy.'

'But we in England and not Calvinists,' cried Berenger. 'We are

not like your Huguenots.'

'The Church would make no difference,' said the priest. 'Stay,

sir,' as Berenger stuck his own forehead, and was about to utter a

fierce invective. 'Remember that if your child lives, it is owing

to the pity of the good nuns. You seem not far from the bosom of

the Church. Did you but return---'

'It is vain to speak of that,' said Berenger, quickly. 'Say, sir,

would an order from the King avail to open these doors?'

'Of course it would, if you have the influence to obtain one.'

'I have, I have,' cried Berenger, eagerly. 'The King has been my

good friend already. Moreover, my English grandfather will deal

with the Queen. The heiress of our house cannot be left in a

foreign nunnery. Say, sir,' he added, turning to the priest, 'if I

went to Lucon at once know your name, and refuse all dealings with

you.'

'She could not do so, if I brought an order from the King.'

'Certainly not.'

'Then to Paris!' And laying his hand on Philip's shoulder, he

asked the boy whether he had understood, ad explained that he must

go at once to Paris--riding post--and obtain the order from the

King.

'To Paris--to be murdered again!' said Philip, in dismay.

'They do not spend their time there in murder,' said Berenger.

'And now is the time, while the savage villain Narcisse is with his

master in Poland. I cannot but go, Philip; we both waste words.

You shall take home a letter to my Lord.'

'I--I go not home without you,' said Philip, doggedly.

'I cannot take you, Phil; I have no warrant.'

'I have warrant for going, though. My father said he was easier

about you with me at your side. Where you go, I go.'

The brothers understood each other's ways so well, that Berenger

knew the intonation in Philip's voice that meant that nothing

should make him give way. He persuaded no more, only took measures

for the journey, in which the kind priest gave him friendly advice.

There was no doubt that the good man pitied him sincerely, and

wished him success more than perhaps he strictly ought to have

done, unless as a possible convert. Of money for the journey there

was no lack, for Berenger had brought a considerable sum, intending

to reward all who had befriended Eustacie, as well as to fit her

out for the voyage; and this, perhaps, with his papers, he had

brought ashore to facilitate his entrance into La Sablerie,--that

entrance which, alas! he had found only too easy. He had therefore

only to obtain horses and a guide, and this could be done at la

Motte-Achard, where the party could easily be guided on foot, or

conveyed in a boat if the fog should not set in again, but all the

coast-line of Nissard was dangerous in autumn and winter; nay, even

this very August an old man, with his daughter, her infant, and a

donkey, had been found bewildered between the creeks on a sandbank,

where they stood still and patient, like a picture of the Flight

into Egypt, when an old fisherman found them, and brought them to

the beneficent shelter of the Presbytere.

Stories of this kind were told at the meal that was something

partaking of the nature of both breakfast and early dinner, but

where Berenger ate little and spoke less. Philip watched him

anxiously; the boy thought the journey a perilous experiment every

way, but, boyishly, was resolved neither to own his fears of it nor

to leave his brother. External perils he was quite ready to face,

and he fancied that his English birth would give him some power of

protecting Berenger, but he was more reasonably in dread of the

present shock bringing on such an illness as the last relapse; and

if Berenger lost his senses again, what should they do? He even

ventured to hint at this danger, but Berenger answered, 'That will

scarce happen again. My head is stronger now. Besides, it was

doing nothing, and hearing her truth profaned, that crazed me. No

one at least will do that again. But if you wish to drive me

frantic again, the way would be to let Hobbs carry me home without

seeking her child.'

Philip bore this in mind, when, with flood-tide, Master Hobbs

landed, and showed himself utterly dismayed at the turn affairs had

taken. He saw the needlessness of going to Lucon without royal

authority; indeed, he thought it possible that the very application

there might give the alarm, and cause all tokens of the child's

identity to be destroyed, in order to save her from her heretic

relations. But he did not at all approve of the young gentlemen

going off to Paris at once. It was against his orders. He felt

bound to take them home as he has brought them, and they might then

make a fresh start if it so pleased them; but how could he return

to my Lord and Sir Duke without them? 'Mr. Ribaumont might be

right--it was not for him to say a father ought not to look after

his child--yet he was but a stripling himself, and my Lord had

said, 'Master Hobbs, I trust him to you.'' He would clearly have

liked to have called in a boat's crew, mastered the young

gentlemen, and carried them on board as captives; but as this was

out of his power, he was obliged to yield the point. He

disconsolately accepted the letters in which Berenger had explained

all, and in which he promised to go at once to Sir Francis

Walsingham's at Paris, to run into no needless danger, and to watch

carefully over Philip; and craved pardon, in a respectful but yet

manly and determined tone, for placing his duty to his lost,

deserted child above his submission to his grandfather. Then

engaging to look out for a signal on the coast if he should said to

Bordeaux in January, to touch and take the passengers off, Captain

Hobbs took leave, and the brothers were left to their own

resources.




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