waters since that long buried and most sanguinary age which forms our theme; and still placid as ever is the valley, brightly as ever flows the stream.  Even now, as in that vanished, but never-forgotten time, nestles the little city in the angle of the two rivers; still directly over its head seems to hang in mid-air the massive and frowning fortress, like the gigantic helmet-in the fiction, as if ready to crush the pigmy town below.

It was this famous citadel, crowning an abrupt precipice five hundred feet above the river’s bed, and placed near the frontier of France, which made the city so important, and which had now attracted Don John’s attention in this hour of his perplexity.  The unexpected visit of a celebrated personage, furnished him with the pretext which he desired.  The beautiful Margaret of Valois, Queen of Navarre, was proceeding to the baths of Spa, to drink the waters.  Her health was as perfect as her beauty, but she was flying from a husband whom she hated, to advance the interest of a brother whom she loved with a more than sisterly fondness—­ for the worthless Duke of Alencon was one of the many competitors for the Netherland government; the correspondence between himself and his brother with Orange and his agents being still continued.  The hollow truce with the Huguenots in France had, however, been again succeeded by war.  Henry of Valois had already commenced operations in Gascony against Henry of Navarre, whom he hated, almost as cordially as Margaret herself could do, and the Duke of Alencon was besieging Issoire.  Meantime, the beautiful Queen came to mingle he golden thread of her feminine intrigues with the dark woof of the Netherland destinies.

Few spirits have been more subtle, few faces so fatal as hers.  True child of the Medicean mother, worthy sister of Charles, Henry; and Francis—­princes for ever infamous in the annals of France—­she possessed more beauty and wit than Mary of Scotland, more learning and accomplishments than Elizabeth of England.  In the blaze of her beauty, according to the inflated language of her most determined worshiper, the wings of all rivals were melted.  Heaven required to be raised higher and earth made wider, before a full sweep could be given to her own majestic flight.  We are further informed that she was a Minerva for eloquence, that she composed matchless poems which she sang most exquisitely to the sound of her lute, and that her familiar letters were so full of genius, that “poor Cicero” was but a fool to her in the same branch of composition.  The world has shuddered for ages at the dark tragedy of her nuptials.  Was it strange that hatred, incest, murder, should follow in the train of a wedding thus hideously solemnized?

Don John, as in his Moorish disguise he had looked upon her perfections, had felt in danger of becoming really the slave he personated—­“her beauty is more divine than human,” he had cried, “but fitter to destroy men’s souls than to bless them;” and now the enchantress was on her way to his dominions.  Her road led through Namur to Liege, and gallantry required that he should meet her as she passed.  Attended by a select band of gentlemen and a few horsemen of his body-guard, the Governor came to Namur.