’Because the more they try to force on me the story of her fate, the plainer it is to me that they do not believe it.  I shall find her yet, and then, Phil, you shall have the first chance.’

Philip growled.

‘Well, Phil,’ said his brother, good-humouredly, ’any way, till this Love comes that is to let us out, don’t let Moor or fiend come between us.  Let me keep my credence for the honest Bailli’s daughters at Lucon; and remember I would give my life to free you, but I cannot give away my faith.’  Philip bent his head.  He was of too stubborn a mould to express contrition or affection, but he mused for five minutes, then called Humfrey, and at the last moment, as the heavy tread came up-stairs, he turned round and said, ’You’re in the right on’t there, Berry.  Hap what hap, the foul fiend may carry off the conjurer before I murmur at you again!  Still I wish you had seen him.  You would know ‘tis sooth.’

While Berenger, in his prison chamber, with the lamplight beaming on his high white brow and clear eye, stood before his two comrades in captivity, their true-hearted faces composed to reverence, and as he read, ’I have hated them that hold of superstitious vanities, and my trust hath been in the Lord.  I will be glad and rejoice in Thy mercy, for Thou hast considered my trouble and hast known my soul in adversities,’ feeling that here was the oracle by which he was willing to abide—­Diane de Selinville was entering the cabinet where the secrets of the future were to be unveiled.

There she stood—­the beautiful court lady—­her lace coif (of the Mary of Scotland type) well framed the beautiful oval of her face, and set of the clear olive of her complexion, softened by short jetty curls at the temples, and lighted splendid dark eyes, and by the smiles of a perfect pair of lips.  A transparent veil hung back over the ruff like frostwork-formed fairy wings, and over the white silk bodice and sleeves laced with violet, and the violet skirt that fell in ample folds on the ground; only, however, in the dim light revealing by an occasional gleam that it was not black.  It was a stately presence, yet withal there was a tremor, a quiver of the downcast eyelids, and a trembling of the fair hand, as though she were ill at ease; even though it was by no means the first time she had trafficked with the dealers in mysterious arts who swarmed around Catherine de Medicis.  There were words lately uttered that weighed with her in their simplicity, and she could not forget them in that gloomy light, as she gazed on the brown face of the Italian, Ercole, faultless in outline as a classical mask, but the black depths of the eyes sparkling with intensity of observation, as if they were everywhere at once and gazed through and through.  He wore his national dress, with the short cloak over one shoulder; but the little boy, who stood at the table, had been fantastically arrayed in a sort of semi-Albanian garb, a red cap