“Have you learned when the vessel sails?” was her first question.  It was her reply to the lady’s glance,—­a glance for which there were no attendant words in all the language.

“Tomorrow, Elizabeth.”

“Are you ready?”

“I will be.”

“Then I will give you to him.  I promised that, too.  I can fulfill that, at least.  You must not think the prison-walls too dreary.  My mother”—­

“I understand, Elizabeth.”

And they sailed on the morrow.  No delay for wandering among the meadows of the pleasant town, for gossip with the men and women who were in childhood playmates of her father and her mother; no strolling along lovely river-banks.  Chalons had nothing for Elizabeth; only one green nook of all the world had anything for her,—­an island in the sea,—­a prison on that island,—­and there work to do worthy of Gabriel.

But—­wonder of wonders!

Paul and Silas sang songs in their prison, and the jailer heard them; then there came an earthquake.

Who was he that found his cell-doors opened suddenly, and a messenger from out the courts of heaven there to guide his steps?

History is full of marvellous records; I add this to those.  The eleventh hour goes always freighted with the weightiest events.

On board the vessel that carried Elizabeth and her charge back to Foray went a messenger commissioned of the king.  He took from court to prison the partial pardon of Cordier.  Liberty, but banishment henceforth.  Stephen Cordier should be constrained to faithfulness towards his new love.  Doomed to perpetual exile, he should be tempted by no late loyalty to Madeline Desperiers.  The new acts of his drama should have nought to do with her.  Justice forever!

Rascal that he was, according to the word of General Saterges, it was rascality which the General could pardon.  He had gained many a victory in desperate strife,—­now one other, the last and most complete:  the kingdom’s fairest star to shine among his honors!  The proclamation of Stephen Cordier’s pardon would instantly make broad the way to Chateau Desperiers.  She came of a proud race, and he reckoned on her pride.

Let us not glory in that old man’s defeat,—­for he died ere his enemy received, through Elizabeth Montier, life, and the joy of life.  Let us not call him by an evil name to whom the nation gave so fine a funeral,—­but rather pause to listen to the music that comes forth in royal glory from the harmonious world of Adolphus,—­and turn to look with loving reverence, not with doubt or wonder, and surely not with pity, on the serene face of Her Grace, the Drummer’s Daughter.

  WORK AND REST.

  What have I yet to do? 
    Day weareth on,—­
  Flowers, that, opening new,
  Smiled through the morning’s dew,
    Droop in the sun.

  ’Neath the noon’s scorching glare
    Fainting I stand;
  Still is the sultry air,
  Silentness everywhere
    Through the hot land.