MARY HARTWELL CATHERWOOD

With illustrations by Andre Castaigne

Indianapolis
The Bown-Merrill Company
Publishers

1901

[Illustration:  He mounted toward the guardians of the imperial court and fortune was with him]

PRELUDE

ST. BAT’S

LAZARRE

“My name is Eagle,” said the little girl.

The boy said nothing.

“My name is Eagle,” she repeated.  “Eagle de Ferrier.  What is your name?”

Still the boy said nothing.

She looked at him surprised, but checked her displeasure.  He was about nine years old, while she was less than seven.  By the dim light which sifted through the top of St. Bat’s church he did not appear sullen.  He sat on the flagstones as if dazed and stupefied, facing a blacksmith’s forge, which for many generations had occupied the north transept.  A smith and some apprentices hammered measures that echoed with multiplied volume from the Norman roof; and the crimson fire made a spot vivid as blood.  A low stone arch, half walled up, and blackened by smoke, framed the top of the smithy, and through this frame could be seen a bit of St. Bat’s close outside, upon which the doors stood open.  Now an apprentice would seize the bellows-handle and blow up flame which briefly sprang and disappeared.  The aproned figures, Saxon and brawny, made a fascinating show in the dark shop.

Though the boy was dressed like a plain French citizen of that year, 1795, and his knee breeches betrayed shrunken calves, and his sleeves, wrists that were swollen as with tumors, Eagle accepted him as her equal.  His fine wavy hair was of a chestnut color, and his hands and feet were small.  His features were perfect as her own.  But while life played unceasingly in vivid expression across her face, his muscles never moved.  The hazel eyes, bluish around their iris rims, took cognizance of nothing.  His left eyebrow had been parted by a cut now healed and forming its permanent scar.

“You understand me, don’t you?” Eagle talked to him.  “But you could not understand Sally Blake.  She is an English girl.  We live at her house until our ship sails, and I hope it will sail soon.  Poor boy!  Did the wicked mob in Paris hurt your arms?”

She soothed and patted his wrists, and he neither shrank in pain nor resented the endearment with male shyness.

Eagle edged closer to him on the stone pavement.  She was amused by the blacksmith’s arch, and interested in all the unusual life around her, and she leaned forward to find some response in his eyes.  He was unconscious of his strange environment.  The ancient church of St. Bartholomew the Great, or St. Bat’s as it was called, in the heart of London, had long been a hived village.  Not only