“Of all this have I thought,” said Adelheid, eagerly; “whatever may be the injustice of others, thou hast none to fear from me.”

Marguerite yielded the form of her child to the support of her father’s arm, and drew nearer, with a gaze of earnest and pleased interest, to the blushing but still composed Adelheid.  She took the hand of the latter, and, with a look of recognition and intelligence, said slowly, as if communing with herself, rather than speaking to another——­

“This is getting to be intelligible!” she murmured; “there is still gratitude and creditable feeling in the world.  I can understand why we are not revolting to this fair being:  she has a sense of justice that is stronger than her prejudices.  We have done her service, and she is not ashamed of the source whence it has come!”

The heart of Adelheid throbbed quick and violently; and, for a moment, she doubted her ability to command her feelings.  But the pleasing conviction that Sigismund had been honorable and delicate, even in his most sacred and confidential communications with his own mother, came to relieve her, and to make her momentarily happy; since nothing is so painful to the pure mind, as to think those they love have acted unworthily; or nothing so grateful, as the assurance that they merit the esteem we have been induced liberally and confidingly to bestow.

“You do me no more than justice,” returned the pleased listener of this flattering and seemingly involuntary opinion—­“we are indeed—­indeed we are truly grateful; but had we not reason for the sacred obligations of gratitude, I think we could still be just.  Will you not now consent that my people should aid you?”

“This is not necessary, lady.  Send away thy followers, for their presence will draw unpleasant observations on our movements.  The town is now occupied with feasts, and, as we have not blindly overlooked the necessity of a retreat for the hunted and persecuted, we will take the opportunity to withdraw unseen.  As for thyself—­”

“I would be near this innocent at a moment so trying,”—­added Adelheid earnestly, and with that visible sympathy which rarely fails to meet an echo.

“Heaven bless thee!  Heaven bless thee, sweet girl!  And Heaven will bless thee, for few wrongs go unrequited in this life, and little good without its reward.  Send thy followers away, or if thy habits require their watchfulness, let them be near unseen, whilst thou wateriest our movements; and when the eyes of all are turned on their own pleasures, thou canst follow.  Heaven bless thee—­ay, and Heaven will!”

Marguerite then led her daughter towards one of the least frequented streets.  She was accompanied by the silent Balthazar, and closely watched by one of the menials of Adelheid.  When fairly housed, the domestic returned to show the spot to his mistress, who had appeared to occupy herself with the hundred silly devices that were invented to amuse the multitude.  Dismissing her attendants, with an order to remain at hand, however, the heiress of Willading soon found means to enter the humble abode in which the proscribed family had taken refuge, and, as she was expected, she was soon introduced into the chamber where Christine and her mother had taken refuge.