A few hours later Jeanne's tears were dried, and her appearance then would have made Chauvelin uneasy when he saw her calm, serene eyes, and her peacefully folded hands. She had devised no plan of escape; instead, she waited patiently for the next trial her God chose to test her faith with, to cleanse her more and more until she should meet Him in heaven—which, she felt, was the day she looked forward to, and which, now, was not long in coming.

II

The night had been cold, and it told on his age. No fire burned in the grate, for there was no dry wood this time of year, and he had not the strength to chop anymore.

Jeanne had just left on her errand. Her argument had sounded so convincing, and besides, whether he acknowledged it or not, he did not have any argument left in him. These past several weeks had, as Jeanne had noticed to her dread, told on his strength. His Bible was his only solace; he kept it near him always, reading the most encouraging verses from Isaiah and the Psalms, sometimes staying up nights reading by the scant light of the candle at the desk—much like Jeanne had found him that blessed night.

Or was it blessed? Would Jeanne return in the morning? Had he been awakened to a little joy and renewal only to see it dashed before his eyes once more?

He would not let himself think on it. Turning to Psalms he sought consolation in the words:

"He will fulfill the desire of them that fear Him: He also will hear their cry, and will save them."

He did not think of his wife and daughter; he already read and been comforted by similar words in the Living Book, for he believed they were gone for good, and only if God chose to return them from the dead through Jeanne, it was as well. He had shed his tears for them long before now. When his heart longed for them, as it often did, he read these words in solace:

"He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds."

This night, he placed Jeanne, his only daughter and family now, in God's hands, and trusted to His judgment whether He would spare her.

In the morning, after a rather sleepless night,Mange woke in the font bedroom with his Bible beside him on the rickety night stand. A warm July sun begged to be let through the curtained window; he pulled back the clothes—which were almost rags now—and let the beams stray in all directions into the room. It was a contrast from the cold night, and he was thankful it wasn't winter.

Jeanne had told him she would certainly return before morning, for she herself doubted whether she would be able to enter that forbidding building.Mange hardly knew her plans; he consented, though reluctantly, to whatever her excited endeavors were. He did not think a poor girl around the prison would excite any suspicion in the human bloodhounds lurking about.

The fears of last night had been left in the back of his mind. He made his way to her bedroom, expecting to find her still asleep, for she must have had a long night. He did not look forward to any good news from her escapade of the night.

But he wished to have a glimpse of her young, sleeping face, and ask her how she had faired.

As he neared the bedroom the noticed the sunbeams shining within. She must have forgotten to close the when she retired, he vaguely thought. He neared the doorway, and stepped within.

Inside, he found a perfectly-made bed, with no signs of having been slept in. He had watched her the morning before as she pulled the sheets up; he saw the Bible still upon her nightstand that told beyond doubt that she was not there to read it.

For a moment it was not clear in his old mind; perhaps she had been late, detained, slept elsewhere. And then it hit him. He swayed backward, trying to keep his feet; tears lept into his care-worn eyes, and he clutched at his heart in obvious pain.

He would have fallen backwards, had not two unusually strong arms held him up—they carried him back to the living room and out the back door, where two saddled horses awaited, one by which stood a tall young man, who immediately came forward and helped his chief to put the old man into the other saddle.

Chapter 10

The Daydream

I

She had no Bible with her. Otherwise, she would have been reading every moment of the dreary three days Chauvelin gave her to "rethink" her decision—in other words, to torture her with the thought of the "Either-Or" he had placed before her.

But she never one rethought her utter refusal, though every time she thought over the horrible circumstances, her heart almost broke in two, and she cried aloud to God for mercy.

At the end of the appointed time she was again taken to the bare office, and again faced the cruel glare of her antagonizer. This time she did not look into the icy gray eyes; he could never force her to, she thought vaguely. She was seated in the same chair, and again handed a tin cup of very weak coffee. This time Chauvelin took his cup in his hands and sipped from it thoughtfully, looking her over and noticing her weak points, if she had any. She waited patiently until he spoke.

"I have been eagerly awaiting your decision, citizeness," he said, and his face showed plainly his impatience, though he tried greatly to hide it.

"I hope you have come to the right decision."

Jeanne smiled within herself, even in her desperate position. Even so, her heart felt as if it would burst, so great was her fear of what his response would be to her answer. Would he force her into submission? She could only fear as much, and she cried to God again for help and compassion.

"I have confidence that I have chosen the right decision," she said with surprising great composure, which alarmed Chauvelin from the beginning.

"I will never aide this cruel Republic, and will flee from it, God-willing, until France is herself again."

She could not see for a moment, how Chauvlein took it. Then she saw his eyes become a burning furnace of hate. He still retained his composure, but it was all the more frightening as he spoke.

"Very well," he said, the words piercing Jeanne as with a dagger, "we will see what a week in the tower will do for you. You will no doubt be honored to be resident of the late Queen's occupancy."

She was dragged out without ceremony. Her eyes were blinded with tears of anguish as the two soldiers dragged her down the long, cold hall.

Where was she going? What had she done?

"I will never consent!" she repeated to herself, "whatever measures he takes, I will not consent!"

But even as she said the defiant words in her mind, she cringed and dreaded the tower, search her mind wildly for some plan of escape—some way, perhaps, to take her own life—she could never live now!

"O God, take me!"

A masculine hand passed over her mouth; it was swift, not even noticed by the other soldier; a damp cloth passed over at the same time, and Jeanne flet herself becoming dizzy and light-headed.

Her last thoughts, as she passed into oblivion, were:

"O God, take me now!"

II

Mangewoke in a wild state of mind.

"Jeanne! My Jeanne!" he murmured, trying desperately to raise himself.

A firm hand pushed him down.

"You will not take her! She is my only daughter! She is innocent!"

Again the firm hand pressed down on his chest, and he was forced to lie down once more.

"Ah," he sighed in defeat, "take me where you will; I am done for."

The warm, inviting sun shown spotted through the trees as the two riders and the one's burden moved lightly, and almost noiselessly, through the forest. A frightened bird flew out of the path here and there, whilst the calls of others about the forest warned their fellows of the intruders into their territory.

Mange, still in a half-stupor, murmured his pleadings in no hope of succeeding in them. He lay, submissive to his fate, looking forward to what he thought to be his death.—Freedom at last, from this terrible world with its evil idealists and human hounds! Yes, he was finished; finished fighting against a tidal wave which could not be beaten, and which must after all be submitted to. He had no fight left in him. He had nothing to live for; let them finish off his frail, wasted body, and release him into a much happier world. Yes; such a world! Where no sorrow or pain could be known! As he lay, half unconscious, weary and beaten, he thought of that promise of Eternal life after death upon this earth. He allowed himself—though he could do little about it if he wanted to—to be carried along, whither he knew not, nor cared not. Now that everything was lost, he could die peacefully, and meet his family in that Blessed place.

The gentle monotony of the horse's stride soon put him back to a full sleep, and he was only awakened fully when he felt a not so rough hand gently shaking his shoulder.

"Perhaps we should allow him to sleep," said a strange voice, which helped him to gain consciousness. It sounded unusually kind and soft, unlike the rough, selfish tones heard so often those days.

A deeper voice replied, in authorative, yet gentle tones:

"It would be best to wake him; he must be able to walk. Hello, my friend! I sincerely hope the ride through that beastly wood—eh, Andrew?—has not deprived you of much rest. But I had perforce to awake you, for the continuance of our journey depends on your wakefulness. Please me, if you will, by taking a drink of this wholesome liquor—of much better quality than the sour French water. Will you sit up? Aye, that's how."

Whilst one hand held the flask, the other gently helpedMange to sit up. He looked about him, utterly bewildered.

He was sitting on a saddle blanket laid out in a small clearing in the woods. Nothing but trees surrounded him. Overhead the sky was a striking blue, and the bright sun shining straight down told of the noon hour. He looked down again, and was faced with the two young, jovial faces of English gentleman, the one tall even whilst he sat, with pale blue eyes and a ready helping hand, the other with gentle and kind eyes and a ready smile.

He knew not what to make of it all. These kind faces were wholly unlike the cruel prison keepers as he had imagined them; the forest around him was, by his own knowledge and experience, the Calais wood, and not the common prison.

"What is this? Who are you?" he asked, speaking his thoughts as they presented themselves.

"A wood, my friend, and your friends, taking you to a better and safer place," replied the taller one, the both smiling jovially all the time.

"We are nearly to the outskirts and will have you on board a yacht in no time."

But still he could not believe it; the gentlemanly faces, the danger past, it all seemed as if he were dreaming—this could not be so. Had not all his family been arrested and taken to prison to guillotined? Was he not dying now, or dead? He had nothing more to live for, if they were on their way to eternity.

"I am dreaming; this cannot be so. Leave me to die; and do not tempt me with happy dreams."

AT these words he was surprised to be met with a jovial laugh that startled him, and frightened all the evesdropping birds away.

"My dear fellow," said the tall gentleman—he who had laughed, "you are sadly like the rest of them. As improbable as it may seem to you, we are not ghosts, nor are we actors in a dream. I've given you some good strong liquor, so you cannot be asleep."

The reality was lowly dawning on him. These men, --these gentlemen, wholly ulike the rough and unfeeling Frenchmen of these days—dressed in perfectly tailored capes and breeches, could be none other than that mysterious personage and his league—him whom Jeanne had so fiercely despised and distrusted. Could it be true? – were they really rescuing him from the horrors of his native land?

But what of Jeanne? What of his wife and Adel? He would not be saved to live a safer life in England while they suffered and—no! He could never live with himself!

"My daughters, my wife," he cried aloud, "I will never leave them. You cannot take me away and leave them. Oh God! I would rather die with them!"

He rose in desperation as he spoke. Why—how could these men save him and expect him to live, whilst leaving his family to their fate? Cruel! Heartless! Did they have no feeling?

"Nay, my friend!" spoke the tall gentleman, once more pushing him down gently with a firm hand. "Do not be off so quickly."

Before he could say anything in remonstrance, the gentleman continued.

"Lud, but you are as determined as ever! – Barely do you see such devotion, though, these days," he added in a lower voice. Before he said more, he took a tin plate on which was a piece of good bred and some fresh cheese, and offered it to Mange.

"Eat, you will feel better and think better. And I will talk."

He silently obeyed. The bread and cheese were more welcome than he knew; they were not the stale and hard fair of these days in France, but tasty and actually pleasant to eat. Whilst he partook of the food, the tall gentleman set his wildest fears and ease.

III

Jeanne did not return to consciousness until what seemed to her, hours later. When she woke at last, it was not a cold draft of wind within the prison, but a warm beam of sunshine that was her first conscious feeling. She still felt drowsy, but the warmth of the sun slowly revived her. She wondered vaguely where he was. Her last thoughts began to show themselves. She remembered her confrontation with Chauvelin, and her desperate refusal to betray her country to a pack of wolves. She remembered her awaiting fate—and that of her family—any hour now, because of her refusal to cooperate. Her thoughts were to herself, surprisingly calm, as she said in her heart,

"Lord, I am in Your hands now."

As she gazed unsuspectingly at the blue sky above, where the sun made its way to the noon hour, a face suddenly came within view.

It was the face of Lord Tony.

She jumped, startled, bewildered, and excited—she knew not what for—at the same time. The concerned face looking down at her gently held her arm and cautioned her to be still.

"You!" she cried. She knew not what to think, or do.

But Lord Tony did. Cautioning her to remain quiet, he helped her to sit up,. And handed her a tin plate of the same fair her father had partaken of a few days before her.

"Mademoiselle," spoke Lord Tony, and his tones and gestures reminded her of those he had practiced in the Ballroom in London.

"It is absolutely necessary that we keep the utmost silence. Be assured you are in the safest of hands."

For the first time Jeanne noticed another kind face. She recognized him as Lord Hastings.

Suddenly, before she could recover her scattered thoughts, they were on their way. She was helped onto a spare horse, and they began trotting, wither, she knew not—But she was confident in her safety. It was dawning on her what was happening—though she hardly dared to hope.