He had arrived at the front of the Cathedral when the party came out.  Madame de Bourke had been weeping, but looked more peaceful than he had yet seen her, and Estelle was much excited.  She had bought a little book, which she insisted on her Mentor’s reading with her, though his Protestant feelings recoiled.

‘Ah!’ said Estelle, ‘but you are not Christian.’

‘Yes, truly, Mademoiselle.’

’And these died for the Christian faith.  Do you know mamma said it comforted her to pray there; for she was sure that whatever happened, the good God can make us strong, as He made the young girl who sat in the red-hot chair.  We saw her picture, and it was dreadful.  Do read about her, Monsieur Arture.’

They read, and Arthur had candour enough to perceive that this was the simple primitive narrative of the death of martyrs struggling for Christian truth, long ere the days of superstition and division.  Estelle’s face lighted with enthusiasm.

‘Is it not noble to be a martyr?’ she asked.

‘Oh!’ cried Ulysse; ’to sit in a red-hot chair!  It would be worse than to be thrown off a rock!  But there are no martyrs in these days, sister?’ he added, pressing up to Arthur as if for protection.

‘There are those who die for the right,’ said Arthur, thinking of Lord Derwentwater, who in Jacobite eyes was a martyr.

‘And the good God makes them strong,’ said Estelle, in a low voice.  ’Mamma told me no one could tell how soon we might be tried, and that I was to pray that He would make us as brave as St. Blandina!  What do you think could harm us, Monsieur, when we are going to my dear papa?’

It was Lanty who answered, from behind the Abbe, on whose angling endeavours he was attending.  ’Arrah then, nothing at all, Mademoiselle.  Nothing in the four corners of the world shall hurt one curl of your blessed little head, while Lanty Callaghan is to the fore.’

‘Ah! but you are not God, Lanty,’ said Estelle gravely; ’you cannot keep things from happening.’

‘The Powers forbid that I should spake such blasphemy!’ said Lanty, taking off his hat. ’’Twas not that I meant, but only that poor Lanty would die ten thousand deaths—­worse than them as was thrown to the beasts—­before one of them should harm the tip of that little finger of yours!’

Perhaps the same vow was in Arthur’s heart, though not spoken in such strong terms.

Thus they drifted on till the old city of Avignon rose on the eyes of the travellers, a dark pile of buildings where the massive houses, built round courts, with few external windows, recalled that these had once been the palaces of cardinals accustomed to the Italian city feuds, which made every house become a fortress.

On the wharf stood a gentleman in a resplendent uniform of blue and gold, whom the children hailed with cries of joy and outstretched arms, as their uncle.  The Marquis de Varennes was soon on board, embracing his sister and her children, and conducting them to one of the great palaces, where he had rooms, being then in garrison.  Arthur followed, at a sign from the lady, who presented him to her brother as ’Monsieur Arture’—­a young Scottish gentleman who will do my husband the favour of acting as his secretary.