Just at the entrance of the village, the Count met with his companion Du Bar.

"Have you heard all?" demanded that officer. "What is to be done?"

"Get the boats ready with all speed," replied the Count. "The tide will turn within half an hour, the ships will be able to come farther in. Twenty or thirty persons may get off in the first boats, which must come back again for a second freight. I see clearly, my friend, that there is no intention of dealing harshly with us. All the officers wish us to escape, and there will be no more firing from the castle. I must leave the embarkation, and all that, to you, Du Bar, for I have things to go through that will try my heart to the utmost. I must have a few minutes to make up my mind to parting with my friends and companions, and all that I love on earth, forever.--Du Bar," he continued, while the other wrung his hand affectionately, "there will be a young lady who will accompany you, and that girl, the daughter of poor Virlay. You have a wife and children yourself, whom you love, I know, fondly and devotedly. They are in safety, you told me, on those opposite shores which I shall never see. But let me beseech you,--by the memory of these dark and terrible days, when the hand that now presses yours is laid in the dust, as I know too well must soon be the case,--let me beseech you, I say, to give every aid and assistance to those two that I now commit to your charge. Be to the one as a brother, Du Bar, and to the other as a father. I know you to be honest and true as you are brave and wise; and I shall lay my head upon the block with more peace at my heart, if you promise me that which I now ask."

"I do, I do," replied the Marquis, with the tears standing in his eyes. "I do promise you, from my heart, and I would fain persuade you even now to consider----"

But the Count waved his hand and rode on.

There was a considerable crowd round the entrance of the little inn, and he had some difficulty in making his way in. At the door of the room where he had fixed his own quarters, he found two or three of the royalist soldiers; but, passing by them, he entered the room, when a sight met his eye which might well chill and wring his heart.

The room was nearly empty, but stretched upon the long table, which occupied the midst, was the fine noble form of the Chevalier d'Evran, now still in death. Standing near the head of the body, was the old English officer, Sir Thomas Cecil, with an air of deep stern grief upon his fine and striking countenance. His hat was off, showing his white hair, his arms were crossed upon his chest, his head was erect as ever, and nothing like a tear was in his eye: but there was no mistaking the expression of his countenance. It was that of intense sorrow. But on the other side of the table grief was displaying itself in a different manner, and in a different form. For there knelt ClÉmence de Marly, with her beautiful head bent down over the dead body; her hair, fallen from its bindings, scattered wildly, partly over her own shoulders, partly over the breast of the Chevalier; her left hand clasping that of the dead man, her eyes and face buried on his bosom, while the convulsing sobs that shook her whole frame, told how bitterly she was weeping.

The Count paused with a look of deep sadness: but there was no anger or jealousy in his countenance. The old English officer, however, as soon as he perceived him, hurried forward, and took both his hands, saying, in a low and solemn voice, "You must let her weep, Count, you must let her weep! It is her brother!"

"I have been sure of it for several days," replied the Count. "She told me not, but I knew it from what she did tell me. This day of agony, however, Sir, is not yet over. I must disturb her grief but to waken her to more. You know the short time that is allowed for flight. You know the fate that would await her here if she were to remain in this country as what is called a relapsed heretic, by the cruel persecutors of this land. Within two hours from this time, my good Sir, she must take her departure for ever. The boats will be ready, and not a moment must be lost; and in those two short hours she must part with one who loves her as well as ever woman yet was loved, with one who truly believes she loves him as well as woman's heart can love--and who shall say where is the boundary of that boundless affection? She must part with him, Sir, for ever, and with her native land."

"This is not her native land," replied the old officer. "The lady ClÉmence Cecil, Sir, is an English woman. But in one respect you say true. My poor niece must go, for I have experienced in my own person, as you know, now daring is the injustice of arbitrary power in this land, in the prisons of which, I, an English subject, have been detained for more than a year and a half, till our own papistical and despotic King chose to apply to your despot for my liberation, and for the restoration of my brother's children. She must leave this land indeed. But your words imply that you must stay behind. Tell me, tell me, my noble friend, is this absolutely necessary, in honour and in conscience?"

The Count grasped his hand, and pointed to the dead body. "I promised him," he said, "who lies there, that I would surrender myself to the King's pleasure. I have every reason to believe, that, in consideration of that promise, he dealt as favourably with us as he was permitted; that he even went beyond the strict line of his duty to give us some facilities of escape; and I must hold my promise to the dead as well as if he were here to claim it."

"God forbid," said Sir Thomas Cecil, "that I should say one word against it, terrible as is your determination--for you must well know the fate that awaits you. It seems to me that there was only that one act wanting, to make you all that our poor ClÉmence ought to love on earth, at the very moment she is to lose you for ever. See, she is raising her head. Speak to her, my friend, speak to her!"

The Count advanced and threw his arms round her. He knew that the grief which she felt was one that words could do nothing to mitigate, and the only consolation that he offered was thus by pressing her fondly to his heart, as if to express that there was love and tenderness yet left for her on earth. ClÉmence rose and wiped; way her tears, for she felt he might think that some doubt of his affection mingled with her grief for her brother, if she suffered it to fall into excess.

"Oh, Albert," she said, "this is very terrible. I have but you now----"

A hesitation came over the Count de Morseiul as she spoke those words, gazing tenderly and confidingly upon him: a hesitation, as to whether he should at once tell her his determination, or not let her know that he was about to remain behind, till she was absolutely in the boat destined to bear her away. It was a terrible question that he thus put to his own heart. But he thought it would be cruel not to tell her, however dreadful might be the struggle to witness and to share.

"Alas, ClÉmence," he replied, "I must soon trust you, for a time at least, to other guidance, to other protection than my own. The boats are preparing to carry off a certain number of our friends to England. You must go in one of them, ClÉmence, and that immediately. Your noble uncle here, for such I understand he is, Sir Thomas Cecil, will protect you I know, and be a father to you. The Marquis du Bar, too, one of the noblest of men, will be to you, as a brother."

ClÉmence replied not, but gazed with a look of deep, earnest, imploring inquiry in the countenance of her lover, and after a moment he answered that look by adding, "I have given my promise, ClÉmence, to remain behind!"

"To death, to death!" cried ClÉmence, casting herself upon his bosom, and weeping bitterly, "you are remaining to die. I know it, I know it, and I will never quit you!"

The Count kissed her tenderly, and pressed her to his heart; but he suffered not his resolution to be shaken. "Listen to me, my ClÉmence," he said. "What may be my fate I know not: but I trust in God's mercy, and in my own uprightness of intentions. But think, ClÉmence, only think, dear ClÉmence, how terrible would be my feelings, how tenfold deep and agonising would be all that I may have to suffer, if I knew that, not only I myself was in danger, but that you also were in still greater peril. If I knew that you were in imprisonment, that the having followed the dictates of your conscience was imputed to you as a crime; that you were to be tormented by the agony of trial, before a tyrannical tribunal, and doomed to torture, to cruel death, or to eternal imprisonment. Conceive, ClÉmence, conceive how my heart would be wrung under such circumstances. Conceive how to every pang that I may otherwise suffer would be added the infinite weight of grief, and indignation, and suspense on your account. Conceive all this, and then, oh ClÉmence, be merciful, be kind, and give me the blessing of seeing you depart in safety, as a consolation and a support under all that I may have myself to suffer."

ClÉmence wept bitterly upon his bosom, and the Count soothed her by every endearing and tender word. At length, she suddenly raised her head, as if some new idea had struck her, and she exclaimed, "I will go, Albert. I will go upon one condition, without torturing you more by opposition."

"What is that condition, dear ClÉmence?" demanded the Count, gazing on her face, which was glowing warmly even through her tears. "What is that condition, dearest ClÉmence?"

ClÉmence hid her face again upon his breast, and answered, "It is, that I may become your wife before I quit this shore. We have Protestant ministers here; the ceremony can be easily performed. My uncle, I know, will offer no opposition; and I would fain bear the name of one so noble and so beloved, to another land, and to the grave, which may, perhaps, soon reunite us."

The Count's heart was wrung, but he replied, "Oh, beloved ClÉmence, why, why propose that which must not--which cannot be; why propose that which, though so tempting to every feeling of my heart, would cover me with well-deserved shame if I yielded to it?--Think, think ClÉmence, what would deservedly be said of me if I were to consent--if I were to allow you to become my wife; to part with you at the altar, and perhaps by my death as a condemned criminal, to leave you an unprotected widow within a few days."

ClÉmence clasped her hands, vehemently exclaiming, "So help me Heaven as I would rather be the widow of Albert of Morseiul, than the wife of any other man that ever lived on earth!"

Sir Thomas Cecil, however, interposed. "ClÉmence," he said, "your lover is right: but he will not use arguments to persuade you that I may use. This is a severe and bitter trial. The Almighty only knows how it will terminate: but, my dear child, remember that this is no ordinary man you love. Let his character be complete to the last! Do not--do not, by any solicitation of your's, ClÉmence, take the least brightness from his bright example. Let him go on, my child, to do what he believes his duty at all risks, and through all sacrifices. Let there not be one selfish spot from the beginning to the end for man to point at; and the Almighty will protect and reward him to whom he has given power to act uprightly to the last;--if not in this world, in another he will be blest, ClÉmence, and to that other we must turn our hopes of happiness, for here it is God's will that we should have tribulation."

ClÉmence clasped her hands, and bent down her eyes to the ground. For several minutes she remained as if in deep thought, and then said, in a low but a firmer voice, "Albert, I yield; and knowing from what is in my own heart, how dreadful this moment must be to you, I will not render it more dreadful by asking you any thing more that you must refuse. I will endeavour to be as calm as I can, Albert;--but weep I must. Perhaps," she added, with a faint, faint smile upon her lips, "I might weep less if there were no hope; if it were all despair: but I see a glimmering for exertion on my part, if not exactly for hope; and that exertion may certainly be better made in another land than if I were to remain here:--and now for the pain of departure. That must be undergone, and I am ready to undergo it rather at once than when I have forgotten my faint resolution. Do you go with me?" she continued, turning to her uncle; "if it be needful that you stay, I fear not to go alone."

Sir Thomas Cecil, however, replied that he was ready to accompany her. Her maid, Maria, was warned to prepare with all speed; and ere a few more sentences were spoken on either part, the Marquis du Bar came to inform the Count, that the boats were afloat, and the vessels standing in, as far as they could into the bay. The Huguenot gentlemen mentioned in the list of proscription were already on the shore, and not a little eager to be in the first boats to put off. The soldiery were drawn up under arms to await the expiration of the truce; and as the Count and Sir Thomas Cecil led down ClÉmence, weeping bitterly, to the sands, a murmur of sympathy and compassion ran through the crowd, and through the ranks of the soldiery, and the gentlemen drew back to give her the first place in the boats. Before they reached the edge, however, the Count, whose eye had been raised for a moment to the vessels, pointed towards them with a smile of satisfaction.

"Gentlemen," he said, looking round, "I am happy to see that you will all be able to get off without risk. Do you not perceive they are sending off their boats for you? ClÉmence," he said, in a lower voice, "will you go at once, or will you wait till the other boats arrive, and all go together?"

"Let me wait--let me wait," said ClÉmence, in the same low tone. "Every moment that my hand touches yours is a treasure."

The other boats came in rapidly with the returning tide; and as soon as their keels touched the sand, and a few words had been spoken to ascertain that all was right and understood, the Count turned and said,--

"Now, gentlemen."

There were some twenty or thirty yards of shallow water between the sands and the boats, and Albert of Morseiul raised ClÉmence in his arms, and carried her to the edge of the first. Neither of them spoke a word; but as leaning over, he placed her in the boat, she felt his arms clasp more tightly round her, and his lips were pressed upon hers.

"The Almighty bless thee!" and "God protect and deliver you!" was all that was said on either side; and the Count turned back to the shore.

One by one the different officers advanced to him in silence, and grasped his hand before they proceeded to the boats. When they were all in, and the boats began to push off, the Count pulled off his hat, and stood bareheaded, looking up to Heaven. But at that moment a loud shout burst from the soldiery, of "The Count, the Count, they have forgotten the Count!"

But the Count of Morseiul turned round towards them, and said aloud, in his usual calm, firm tone: "They have not forgotten me, my friends. It was you that were mistaken when you thought that I had forgotten you. I remain to meet my fate, whatever it may be."

A number of men in the ranks instantly threw down their muskets, and rushing forward, clasped his knees, beseeching him to go. But he waved his hand, saying gently, "It is in vain, my friends! My determination has been taken for many days. Go back to your ranks, my good fellows, go back to your ranks! I will but see the boats safe, and then join you, to surrender the village and lay down our arms."

The Count then turned again to the sea, and watched the four boats row onward from the shore. They reached the vessels in safety in a few minutes; in a few minutes more the boats belonging to the village began to row back empty. After a little pause some more canvass was seen displayed upon the yards of the vessels. They began to move; they sailed out of the harbour; and, after gazing down upon the sand fixedly and intently while one might count a hundred, the Count of Morseiul, feeling himself solitary, turned, gave the word of command, and marched the men back into the village. He entered immediately into the room where the Chevalier d'Evran lay, and although by this time all the principal officers of the royalist force were there, with several other persons, amongst whom was his own servant Riquet, he walked silently up to the head of the corpse, and gazed for several minutes on the dead man's face. Then lifting the cold hand, he pressed it affectionately in his.

"God receive thee, Louis! God receive thee!" he said, and his eyes filled with the first tears that they had shed that day.

"I see no use now, Sir," he continued, turning to the officer who had taken the command of the royal forces, "I see no use of delaying any longer the surrender of the village. I am ready in person to give it up to you this moment, and also to surrender my sword. The only favour I have to ask is, that you will make it known to his Majesty that I had no share in the event by which my unhappy friend here fell. The shot which slew him was intended for me, as you are doubtless aware."

"Perfectly," replied the commander; "and I have already sent off a despatch to the King, giving him an account of the events of this morning; and I myself, joined with all the officers here present, have not failed to testify our sense of the noble, upright, and disinterested conduct of the Count of Morseiul. I would fain speak with him a word alone, however," and he drew him aside to the window. "Count," he said, "I shall not demand your sword, nor in any way affect your liberty, if you will promise to go to Paris immediately, and surrender yourself there. If you would take my advice, you would go at once to the King, and cast yourself at his feet. Ask for no audience, but seek admission to him at some public moment If fortune favours you, which I trust it will, you may have an opportunity of explaining to his Majesty many things that have probably been misrepresented."

"I shall certainly follow your advice," said the Count, "since you put it in my power to do so."

"Ah, gentlemen," cried Riquet, who had been listening unperceived to all they said. "If the poor Chevalier had lived, the Count would have been quite safe, for he had the means of proving that the Count saved the King's life not long ago, of which his Majesty knows nothing. I heard the man Herval make his confession to the Chevalier with my own ears; but he could not take it down, for the man died before pen and ink could do their work."

"That is unfortunate, indeed," said the commander; "but still you can give your testimony of the facts, my good friend."

"Bless you, Sir," replied Riquet, "they will never believe any thing I can say."

"I fear not, indeed," replied the Count. "Besides, Sir, my good friend Riquet, if he went to Paris, would have so much to confess on his own account, that they would not mind what he said in regard to the confessions of others."

"Unfortunately, too," said the commander, "all the papers of HatrÉaumont, if I remember right, were ordered to be burnt by the common hangman. Such was the sentence of the court, I know, and it must have been executed long ago. However, Count, the plan that I have proposed is still the best. Speed to Paris with what haste you may; cast yourself upon the King's mercy; tell him all and every thing, if he will permit you to do so, and engage all your friends to support your cause at the same moment. Take your way at once into Brittany," he added, dropping his voice, "and from thence to Paris; for I very much fear that the result would be fatal if you were to fall into the hands of the intendant of Poitou. He is exasperated to the highest degree. You have surrendered at discretion, taken with arms in your hand. He has already broken on the wheel two or three under the same circumstances; and I dare not deal with him in the same way that the Chevalier d'Evran did, for I have not sufficient power."

The Count thanked him for his advice, and followed it; and, as we must not pause upon such circumstances as the surrender of the village, we shall let that event be supposed to have taken place; and in our next chapter shall, if possible, pursue this sad history to its conclusion.