‘One bird in the hand is not always worth two in the bush, assuredly,’ said Philip, when Berenger was calm enough to hold council on what he called this most blessed discovery; ‘but where to seek them?

‘I have no fears now,’ returned Berenger. ‘We have not been bore through so much not to be brought together at last. Soon, soon shall we have her! A minister so distinguished as Isaac Gardon is sure to be heard of either at La Rochelle, Montauban, or Nimes, their great gathering places.

‘For Rochelle, then?’ said Philip.

‘Even so. We will be off early to-morrow, and from thence, if we do not find her there, as I expected, we shall be able to write the thrice happy news to those at home.

Accordingly, the little cavalcade started in good time, in the cool of the morning of the bright long day of early June, while apple petal floated down on them in the lanes like snow, and nightingales in every hedge seemed to give voice and tune to Berenger’s eager, yearning hopes.

Suddenly there was a sound of horse’s feet in the road before them, and as they drew aside to make way, a little troop of gendarmes filled the narrow lane. The officer, a rough, harsh-looking man, laid his hand on Berenger’s bridle, with the words, ‘In the name of the King!

Philip began to draw his sword with one hand, and with the other to urge his horse between the officer and his brother, but Berenger called out, ‘Back! This gentleman mistakes my person. I am the Baron de Ribaumont, and have a safe-conduct from the King.

‘What king?’ demanded the officer.

‘From King Charles.

‘I arrest you,’ said the officer, ‘in the name of King Henry III, and of the Queen Regent Catherine.

‘The King dead?’ Exclaimed Berenger.

‘On the 30th of May. Now, sir.

‘Your warrant—your cause?’ still demanded Berenger.

‘There will be time enough for that when you are safely lodged, said the captain, roughly pulling at the rein, which he had held all the time.

‘What, no warrant?’ shouted Philip, ‘he is a mere robber!’ and with drawn sword he was precipitating himself on the captain, when another gendarme, who had been on the watch, grappled with him, and dragged him off his horse before he could strike a blow. The other two English, Humfrey Holt and John Smithers, strong full-grown men, rode in fiercely to the rescue, and Berenger himself struggled furiously to loose himself from the captain, and deliver his brother. Suddenly there was the report of a pistol: poor Smithers fell, there was a moment of standing aghast, and in that moment the one man and the two youths were each pounced on by three or four gendarmes, thrown down and pinioned.

‘Is this usage for gentlemen?’ exclaimed Berenger, as he was roughly raised to his feet.

‘The King’s power has been resisted,’ was all the answer; and when he would have been to see how it was with poor Smithers, one of the men-at-arms kicked over the body with sickening brutality, saying, ‘Dead enough, heretic and English carrion!

Philip uttered a cry of loathing horror, and turned white; Berenger, above all else, felt a sort of frenzied despair as he thought of the peril of the boy who had been trusted to him.

‘Have you had enough, sir?’ said the captain. ‘Mount and come.

They could only let themselves be lifted to their horses, and their hands were then set free to use their bridles, each being guarded by a soldier on each side of him. Philip attempted but once to speak, and that in English: ‘Next time I shall take my pistol.

He was rudely silenced, and rode on with wide-open stolid eyes and dogged face, steadfastly resolved that no Frenchman should see him flinch, and vexed that Berenger had his riding mask on so that his face could not be studied; while he, on his side, was revolving all causes possible for his arrest, and all means of enforcing he liberation, if not of himself at least of Philip and Humfrey. He looked round for Guibert, but could not see him.

They rode on through the intricate lanes till the sun was high and scorching, and Berenger felt how far he was from perfect recovery. At last, however, some little time past noon, the gendarmes halted at a stone fountain, outside a village, and disposing a sufficient guard around his captives, the officer permitted them to dismount and rest, while he, with the rest of the troop and the horses, went to the village CABARET. Philip would have asked his brother what it meant, and what was to be done, but Berenger shook his head, and intimated that silence was safest as present, since they might be listened to; and Philip, who so much imagined treachery and iniquity to be the order of the day in France that he was scarcely surprised at the present disaster, resigned himself to the same sullen endurance. Provisions and liquor were presently sent up from the inn, but Berenger could taste nothing but the cold water of the fountain, which trickled out cool and fresh beneath an arch surmounted by a figure of Our Lady. He bathed his face and head in the refreshing spring, and lay down on a cloak in the shade, Philip keeping a constant change of drenched kerchiefs on his brow, and hoping that he slept, till at the end to two or three hours the captain returned, gave the word to horse, and the party rode on through intricate lanes, blossoming with hawthorn, and ringing with songs of birds that spoke a very different language now to Berenger’s heart from what they had said in the hopeful morning.

A convent bell was ringing to evensong, when passing its gateway; the escort turned up a low hill, on the summit of which stood a chateau, covering a considerable extent of ground, with a circuit of wall, whitewashed so as perfectly to glare in the evening sun; at every angle a round, slim turret, crowned by a brilliant red-tiled extinguisher-like cap; and the whole surmounted by a tall old keep in the centre. There was a square projection containing an arched gateway, with heavy doorways, which were thrown open as the party approached. Philip looked up as he rode in, and over the doorway beheld the familiar fretted shield, with the leopard in the corner, and ‘A moi Ribaumont’’ round it. Could it then be Berenger’s own castle, and was it thus that he was approaching it? He himself had not looked up; he was utterly spent with fatigue, dejection, and the severe headache brought on by the heat of the sun, and was only intent on rallying his powers for the crisis of fate that was probably approaching; and thus scarcely took note of the court into which he rode, lying between the gateway and the corps de logis, a building erected when comfort demanded more space than was afforded by the old keep, against which one end leant; but still, though inclosed in a court, the lower windows were small and iron-barred, and all air of luxury was reserved for the mullioned casements of the upper storey. The court was flagged, but grass shot up between the stones, and the trim air of ease and inhabited comfort to which the brothers were used at home was utterly wanting. Berenger was hustled off his horse, and roughly pushed through a deep porch, where the first thing he heard was the Chevalier de Ribaumont’s voice in displeasure.

‘How now, sir; hands off! Is this the way you conduct my nephew?

‘He resisted, sir.

‘Sir,’ said Berenger, advancing into the hall, ‘I know not the meaning of this. I am peacefully traveling with a passport from the King, when I am set upon, no warrant shown me, my faithful servant slain, myself and my brother, an English subject, shamefully handled.

‘The violence shall be visited on whatever rascal durst insult a gentleman and my nephew,’ said the Chevalier. ‘For release, it shall be looked to; but unfortunately it is too true that there are orders from the Queen in Council for your apprehension, and it was only on my special entreaty for the honour of the family, and the affection I bear you, that I was allowed to receive you here instead of your being sent to an ordinary prison.

‘On what pretext?’ demanded Berenger.

‘It is known that you have letters in your possession from escaped traitors now in England, to La Noue, Duplessis Mornay, and other heretics.

‘That is easily explained,’ said Berenger. ‘You know well, sir, that they were to facilitate my search at La Sablerie. You shall see them yourself, sir.

‘That I must assuredly do,’ replied the Chevalier, ‘for it is the order of her Majesty, I regret to say, that your person and baggage be searched;’ then, as indignant colour rushed into Berenger’s face, and an angry exclamation was beginning, he added, ‘Nay, I understand, my dear cousin, it is very painful, but we would spare you as much as possible. It will be quite enough if the search is made by myself in the presence of this gentleman, who will only stand by for form’s sake. I have no doubt it will enable us quickly to clear up matters, and set you free again. Do me the honour to follow me to the chamber destined for you.

‘Let me see the order for my arrest,’ said Berenger, holding his head high.

‘The English scruple must be gratified,’ said the Chevalier. And accordingly the gendarme captain unfolded before him a paper, which was evidently a distinct order to arrest and examine the person of Henri Beranger Eustache, Baron de Ribaumont and Sieur de Leurre, suspected of treasonable practices—and it bore the signature of Catherine.

‘There is nothing here said of my step-father’s son, Philip Thistlewood, nor of my servant, Humfrey Holt,’ said Berenger, gathering the sense with his dizzy eyes as best he could. ‘They cannot be detained, being born subjects of the Queen of England.

‘They intercepted the justice of the King,’ said the captain, laying his hand on Philip’s shoulder. ‘I shall have them off with me to the garrison of Lugon, and deal with them there.

‘Wait!’ said the Chevalier, interposing before Berenger’s fierce, horror-struck expostulation could break forth; ‘this is an honourable young gentleman, son of a chevalier of good reputation in England, and he need not be so harshly dealt with. You will not separate either him or the poor groom from my nephew, so the Queen’s authority be now rightly acknowledged.

The captain shrugged his shoulders, as if displeased; and the Chevalier, turning to Berenger, said, ‘You understand, nephew, the lot of you all depends on your not giving umbrage to these officers of her Majesty. I will do my poor best for you; but submission is first needed.

Berenger knew enough of his native country to be aware that la justice du Roi was a terrible thing, and that Philip’s resistance had really put him in so much danger that it was needful to be most careful not further to offend the functionary of Government; and abhorrent as the proposed search was to him, he made no further objection, but taking Philip’s arm, lest they should be separated, he prepared to follow wherever he was to be conducted. The Chevalier led the way along a narrow stone passage, with loophole-windows here and there; and Philip, for all his proud, indifferent bearing, felt his flesh creep as he looked for a stair descending into the bowels of the earth. A stair there was, but it went up instead of down, and after mounting this, and going through a sort of ante-room, a door was opened into a tolerably spacious apartment, evidently in the old keep; for the two windows on opposite sides were in an immensely massive wall, and the floor above and vaulting below were of stone; but otherwise there was nothing repulsive in the appearance of the room. There was a wood fire on the hearth; the sun, setting far to the north, peeped in aslant at one window; a mat was on the floor, tapestry on the lower part of the walls; a table and chairs, and a walnut chest, with a chess-board and a few books on it, were as much furniture as was to be seen in almost any living-room of the day. Humfrey and Guibert, too, were already there, with the small riding valises they and poor Smithers had had in charge. These were at one opened, but contained merely clothes and linen, nothing else that was noticed, except three books, at which the captain looked with a stupid air; and the Chevalier did not seem capable of discovering more than that all three were Latin—one, he believed, the Bible.

‘Yes, sir, the Vulgate—a copy older than the Reformation, so not liable to be called an heretical version,’ said Berenger, to whom a copy had been given by Lady Walwyn, as more likely to be saved if his baggage were searched. ‘The other is the Office and Psalter after our English rite; and this last is not mine, but Mr. Sidney’s—a copy of Virgilius Maro, which he had left behind at Paris.

The Chevalier, not willing to confess that he had taken the English Prayer-book for Latin, hastily said, ‘Nothing wrong there—no, no, nothing that will hurt the State; may it only be so with what you carry on your person, fair cousin. Stand back, gentleman, this is gear for myself alone. Now, fair nephew,’ he added, ‘not a hand shall be laid on you, if you will give me your honourable word, as a nobleman, that you are laying before me all that you carry about you.

An instant’s thought convinced Berenger that resistance would save nothing, and merely lead to indignity to himself and danger to Philip; and therefore he gave the promise to show everything about him, without compulsion. Accordingly, he produced his purse for current expenses, poor King Charles’s safe-conduct, and other articles of no consequence, from his pockets; then reluctantly opened his doublet, and took off the belt containing his store of gold, which had been replenished at Walsingham’s. This was greedily eyed by the captain, but the Chevalier at once made it over to Philip’s keeping, graciously saying, ‘We do no more than duty requires;’ but at the same time he made a gesture towards another small purse that hung round Berenger’s neck by a black ribbon.

‘On my sacred word and honour,’ said Berenger, ‘it contains nothing important to any save myself.

‘Alas! my bounden duty,’ urged the Chevalier.

An angry reply died on Berenger’s lip. At the thought of Philip, he opened the purse, and held out the contents on his palm: a tiny gold ring, a tress of black hair, a fragment of carnation-ribbon pricked with pin-holes, a string of small worthless yellow shells, and, threaded with them, a large pear-shaped pearl of countless price. Even the Chevalier was touched at the sight of this treasury, resting on the blanched palm of the thin, trembling hand, and jealously watched by eyes glistening with sudden moisture, though the lips were firm set. ‘Alas! my poor young cousin,’ he said, ‘you loved her well.

‘Not loved, but love,’ muttered Berenger to himself, as if having recourse to the only cordial that could support him through the present suffering; and he was closing his fingers again over his precious hoard, when the Chevalier added, ‘Stay! Nephew—that pearl?

‘Is one of the chaplet; the token she sent to England,’ he answered.

‘Pauvre petite! Then, at least a fragment remains of the reward of our ancestor’s courage,’ said the Chevalier.

And Berenger did not feel it needful to yield up that still better possession, stored within his heart, that la petite and her pearls were safe together. It was less unendurable to produce the leather case from a secret pocket within his doublet, since, unwilling as he was that any eye should scan the letters it contained, there was nothing in them that could give any clue towards tracing her. Nothing had been written or received since his interview with the children at Lucon. There was, indeed, Eustacie’s letter to his mother, a few received at Paris from Lord Walwyn, reluctantly consenting to his journey in quest of his child, his English passport, the unfortunate letters to La Noue; and what evidently startled the Chevalier more than all the rest, the copy of the certificate of the ratification of the marriage; but his consternation was so arranged as to appear to be all on behalf of his young kinsman. ‘This is serious!’ he said, striking his forehead; ‘you will be accused of forging the late King’s name.

‘This is but a copy,’ said Berenger, pointing to the heading; ‘the original has been sent with our Ambassador’s dispatches to England.

‘It is a pity,’ said the Chevalier, looking thoroughly vexed, ‘that you should have brought fresh difficulties on yourself for a mere piece of waste paper to be affected by the validity of your marriage. Dear cousin,’—he glanced at the officer and lowered his voice,—‘let me tear this paper; it would only do you harm, and the Papal decree annuls it.

‘I have given my word,’ said Berenger, ‘that all that could do me harm should be delivered up! Besides,’ he added, ‘even had I the feeling for my own honour and that of my wife and child, living or dead, the harm, it seems to me, would be to those who withhold her lands from me.

‘Ah, fair nephew! you have fallen among designing persons who have filled your head with absurd claims; but I will not argue the point now, since it becomes a family, not a State matter. These papers’—and he took them into his hand—‘must be examined, and to-morrow Captain Delarue will take them to Paris, with any explanation you may desire to offer. Meantime you and your companions remain my guest, at full liberty, provided you will give me your parole to attempt no escape.

‘No, sir,’ said Berenger, hotly, ‘we will not become our own jailers, nor acquiesce in this unjust detention. I warn you that I am a naturalized Englishman, acknowledged by the Queen as my grandfather’s heir, and the English Ambassador will inform the court what Queen Elizabeth thinks of such dealings with her subjects.

‘Well said,’ exclaimed Philip, and drawing himself up, he added, ‘I refuse my parole, and warn you that it is at your peril that you imprison an Englishman.

‘Very well, gentlemen,’ said the Chevalier; ‘the difference will be that I shall unwillingly be forced to let Captain Delarue post guards at the outlets of this tower. A room beneath is prepared for your grooms, and the court is likewise free to you. I will endeavour to make your detention as little irksome as you will permit, and meantime allow me to show you your sleeping chamber. He then politely, as if he had been ushering a prince to his apartment, led the way, pointing to the door through which they had entered the keep, and saying, ‘This is the only present communication with the dwelling-house. Two gendarmes will always be on the outside.’ He conducted the young men up a stone spiral stair to another room, over that which they had already seen, and furnished as fairly as ordinary sleeping chambers were wont to be.

Here, said their compulsory host, he would leave them to prepare for supper, when they would do him the honour to join him in the eating-hall on their summons by the steward.

His departing bow was duly returned by Berenger, but no sooner did his steps die away on the stairs than the young man threw himself down on his bed, in a paroxysm of suffering both mental and bodily.

‘Berry, Berry, what is this? Speak to me. What does it all mean? cried Philip.

‘How can I tell?’ said Berenger, showing his face for a moment, covered with tears; ‘only that my only friend is dead, and some villainous trick has seized me, just—just as I might have found her. And I’ve been the death of my poor groom, and got you into the power of these vile dastards! Oh, would that I had come alone! Would that they had had the sense to aim direct!

‘Brother, brother, anything but this!’ cried Philip. ‘The rogues are not worth it. Sir Francis will have us out in no time, or know the reason why. I’d scorn to let them wring a tear from me.

‘I hope they never may, dear Phil, nor anything worse.

‘Now,’ continued Philip, ‘the way will be to go down to supper, since they will have it so, and sit and eat at one’s ease as if one cared for them no more than cat and dog. Hark! there’s the steward speaking to Guibert. Come, Berry, wash your face and come.

‘I—my head aches far too much, were there nothing else.

‘What! it is nothing but the sun,’ said Philip. ‘Put a bold face on it, man, and show them how little you heed.

‘How LITTLE I heed!’ bitterly repeated Berenger, turning his face away, utterly unnerved between disappointment, fatigue, and pain; and Philip at that moment had little mercy. Dismayed and vaguely terrified, yet too resolute in national pride to betray his own feelings, he gave vent to his vexation by impatience with a temperament more visibly sensitive than his own: ‘I never thought you so mere a Frenchman,’ he said contemptuously. ‘If you weep and wail so like a sick wench, they will soon have their will of you! I’d have let them kill me before they searched me.

‘’Tis bad enough without this from you, Phil,’ said Berenger, faintly, for he was far too much spent for resentment or self-defence, and had only kept up before the Chevalier by dint of strong effort. Philip was somewhat aghast, both at the involuntary gesture of pain, and at finding there was not even spirit to be angry with him: but his very dismay served at the moment only to feed his displeasure; and he tramped off in his heavy boots, which he chose to wear as a proof of disdain for his companions. He explained that M. de Ribaumont was too much fatigued to come to supper, and he was accordingly marched along the corridor, with the steward before him bearing a lighted torch, and two gendarmes with halberds behind him. And in his walk he had ample time for, first, the resolution that illness, and not dejection, should have all the credit of Berenger’s absence; then for recollecting of how short standing had been his brother’s convalescence; and lastly, for a fury of self-execration for his own unkindness, rude taunts, and neglect of the recurring illness. He would have turned about and gone back at once, but the two gendarmes were close behind, and he knew Humfrey would attend to his brother; so he walked on to the hall—a handsome chamber, hung with armour and spoils of hunting, with a few pictures on the panels, and a great carved music-gallery at one end. The table was laid out somewhat luxuriously for four, according to the innovation which was beginning to separate the meals of the grandees from those of their household.

Great concern was expressed by the Chevalier, as Philip, in French, much improved since the time of his conversation with Madame de Selinville, spoke of his brother’s indisposition, saying with emphasis, as he glared at Captain Delarue, that Maitre Pare had forbidden all exposure to mid-day heat, and that all their journeys had been made in morning or evening coolness. ‘My young friend,’ as his host called him, ‘should, he was assured, have mentioned this, since Captain Delarue had no desire but to make his situation as little painful as possible.’ And the Chevalier sent his steward at once to offer everything the house contained that his prisoner could relish for supper; and then anxiously questioned Philip on his health and diet, obtaining very short and glum answers. The Chevalier and the captain glanced at each other with little shrugs; and Philip, becoming conscious of his shock hair, splashed doublet, and dirty boots, had vague doubts whether his English dignity were not being regarded as English lubberliness; but, of course, he hated the two Frenchmen all the more, and received their civility with greater gruffness. They asked him the present object of his journey—though, probably, the Chevalier knew it before, and he told of the hope that they had of finding the child at Lucon.

‘Vain, of course?’ said the Chevalier. ‘Poor infant! It is well for itself, as for the rest of us, that its troubles were ended long ago.’

Philip started indignantly.

‘Does your brother still nurture any vain hope?’ said the Chevalier.

‘Not vain, I trust,’ said Philip.

‘Indeed! Who can foolishly have so inspired him with a hope that merely wears out his youth, and leads him into danger?’

Philip held his tongue, resolved to be impenetrable; and he was so far successful, that the Chevalier merely became convinced that the brothers were not simply riding to La Rochelle to embark for England, but had some hope and purpose in view; though as to what that might be, Philip’s bluff replies and stubborn silence were baffling.

After the meal, the Chevalier insisted on coming to see how his guest fared; and Philip could not prevent him. They found Berenger sitting on the side of his bed, having evidently just started up on hearing their approach. Otherwise he did not seem to have moved since Philip left him; he had not attempted to undress; and Humfrey told Philip that not a word had been extracted from him, but commands to let him alone.

However, he had rallied his forces to meet the Chevalier, and answered manfully to his excuses for the broiling ride to which he had been exposed, that it mattered not, the effect would pass, it was a mere chance; and refused all offers of medicaments, potions, and TISANES, till his host at length left the room with a most correct exchange of good nights.

‘Berry, Berry, what a brute I have been!’ cried Philip.

‘Foolish lad!’ and Berenger half smiled. ‘Now help me to bed, for the room turns round!’