‘Wait, sir,’ said Berenger, very slowly, and his voice sounding hollow from exhaustion; ’they say that you can tell me of my child.  Let me hear.’

‘Monsieur’s child!’ exclaimed the bewildered curate, looking from him to Philip, and then to the guide, who poured out a whole stream of explanation before Philip had arranged three words of French.

‘You hear, sir,’ said Berenger, as the man finished:  ’I came hither to seek my wife, the Lady of Ribaumont.’

‘Eh!’ exclaimed the cure, ’do I then see M. le Marquis de Nid de Merle?’

‘No!’ cried Berenger; ’no, I am not that scelerat!  I am her true husband, the Baron de Ribaumont.’

‘The Baron de Ribaumont perished at the St. Bartholomew,’ said the cure, fixing his eyes on him, as though to confute an impostor.

‘Ah, would that I had!’ said Berenger.  ’I was barely saved with the life that is but misery now.  I came to seek her—­I found what you know.  They told me that you saved the children.  Ah, tell me where mine is!—­all that is left me.’

’A few poor babes I was permitted to rescue, but very few.  But let me understand to whom I speak,’ he added, much perplexed.  ’You, sir—–­’

’I am her husband, married at five years old—­contract renewed last year.  It was he whom you call Nid de Merle who fell on me, and left me for dead.  A faithful servant saved my life, but I have lain sick in England till now, when her letter to my mother brought me to La Sablerie, to find—­to find THIS.  Oh, sir, have pity on me!  Tell me if you know anything of her, or if you can give me her child.’

’The orphans I was able to save are—­the boys at nurse here, the girls with the good nuns at Lucon,’ said the priest, with infinite pity in his look.  ‘Should you know it, sir?’

‘I would—­I should,’ said Berenger.  ’But it is a girl.  Ah, would that it were here!  But you—­you, sir—­you know more than these fellows.  Is there no—­no hope of herself?’

‘Alas!  I fear I can give you none,’ said the priest; ’but I will tell all I know; only I would fain see you eat, rest, and be dried.’

‘How can I?’ gasped he, allowing himself, however, to sink into a chair; and the priest spoke: 

’Perhaps you know, sir, that the poor lady fled from her friends, and threw herself upon the Huguenots.  All trace had been lost, when, at a banquet given by the mayor of Lucon, there appeared some patisseries, which some ecclesiastic, who had enjoyed the hospitality of Bellaise, recognized as peculiar to the convent there, where she had been brought up.  They were presented to the mayor by his friend, Bailli la Grasse, who had boasted of the excellent confitures of the heretic pastor’s daughter that lodged in the town of La Sablerie.  The place was in disgrace for having afforded shelter and supplies to Montgomery’s pirate crews, and there were narrations of outrages committed on Catholics.  The army were enraged by their failure before La Rochelle; in effect, it was resolved to make an example, when, on M. de Nid de Merle’s summons, all knowledge of the lady was denied.  Is it possible that she was indeed not there?’