In his perplexity, he wandered almost as by instinct to the lodgings of the Lemprieres.  He had long been accustomed to regard the simple good faith and courage of Mme. de Maufant as an infallible oracle in cases of conscience.  Never had so hard a need for an infallible oracle presented itself to his mind as this.

He found the ladies seated in a parlour on the ground floor, engaged in their usual employment of knitting.  The room was small, but warm and snug.  Under a pledge of secrecy, he told them in general terms that there was a plot to seize the king, but took care not to mention the names either of Querto or Benoist.

Meanwhile the council having broken up for the day, the king retired to his chamber.  But instead of resting and calling for refreshment, as was his wont on such occasions, he seemed to meditate an excursion.  Only that, in deference to the prudent scruples of his council, he was apparently going forth in strict disguise, for he unbuckled his jewel-hilted sword, and took off his velvet doublet.  Then tucking his long hair under a fur cap, and putting on a blouse, such as was worn by the country people, he walked out of the castle in the dark of the winter evening, passing the sentries by giving the parole of the day.  The tide being low he walked across the “bridge,” and at the town end was accosted by a man, attired like himself, who was waiting for him there.

“Owls be abroad,” said the stranger.

“They mouse by night,” answered the king.

Without further communication the two walked silently through the town, and up the steep lane in which Mme. de Maufant had taken up her abode.  It was on a hill over-looking the town, still known by the name of “The King’s Cliff.”  At the back were woods and fields.

All this time Alain and the ladies of Maufant had remained in earnest consultation.  Rose was for letting matters take their course.  She had scant sympathy with those whose policy had separated her from her husband, and who were, as she believed, plotting the betrayal of her country, Jersey, and her Michael.  In these lay all her world.  That the king should be carried off to London was nothing to her.  But Marguerite was younger and more generous.  Wronged as she had been by Elliot’s insolent schemes, that account was balanced and closed by the great audit.  But she was not without a woman’s romance, and the thought that a king, young and unfortunate, was to be sold to his father’s relentless enemies and murderers, presented to her ardent mind a thing to be prevented at all hazards.

While they were thus debating the dog was heard to bark excitedly, and footsteps were audible in the garden behind the house.

“Mme. de Maufant,” said a voice at the window, “come forth.  It is I, Pierre Benoist.  I bring a message from your husband.”

“Wait an instant, Benoist,” answered the lady, unalarmed, “I will let you in.”