even up to the end of the chancel, was closely fitted with benches occupied by the ‘sad-coloured’ congregation.  Isaac was obliged by a strenuous effort of memory to recall ‘Ne-hushtan’ and the golden calves, before he could clear from his mind, ’Now they break down all the carved work thereof with axes and with hammers.’  But, then, did not the thorough going Reformers think Master Isaac a very weak and back-sliding brother?

Nevertheless, in right of his age, his former reputation, and his sufferings, his place was full in the midst of the square-capped, black-robed ministers who sat herded on a sort of platform together, to address the Almighty and the congregation in prayers and discourses, interspersed with psalms sung by the whole assembly.  There was no want of piety, depth, force, or fervour.  These were men refined by persecution, who had struggled to the light that had been darkened by the popular system, and, having once been forced into foregoing their scruples as to breaking the unity of the Church, regarded themselves even as apostles of the truth.  Listening to them, Isaac Gardon felt himself rapt into the hopes of cleansing the aspirations of universal re-integration that had shone before his early youth, ere the Church had shown herself deaf, and the Reformers in losing patience had lost purity, and disappointment had crushed him into an aged man.

He was recalled by the echo of a gay, little inarticulate cry—­ those baby tones that had become such music to his ears that he hardly realized that they were not indeed from his grandchild.  In a moment’s glance he saw how it was.  A little bird had flown in at one of the empty window, and was fluttering over the heads of the congregation, and a small, plump, white arm and hand was stretched out and pointing—­a rosy, fair, smiling face upturned; a little gray figure had scrambled up on the knee of one of the still, black-hooded women; and the shout of irrepressible delight was breaking on the decorum of the congregation, in spite of hushes, in spite of the uplifted rod of a scarlet serjeant on his way down the aisle to quell the disturbance; nay, as the bird came nearer, the exulting voice, proud of the achievement of a new word, shouted ‘Moineau, moineau.’  Angered by defiance to authority, down came the rod, not indeed with great force, but with enough to make the arms clasp round the mother’s neck, the face hide itself on in, a loud, terrified wail ring through the church, and tempestuous sobbing follow it up.  Then uprose the black-hooded figure, the child tightly clasped, and her mantle drawn round it, while the other hand motioned the official aside, and down the aisle, even to the door, she swept with the lofty carriage, high-drawn neck, and swelling bosom of an offended princess.

Maitre Gardon heard little more of the discourse, indeed he would have followed at once had he not feared to increase the sensation and the scandal.  He came home to find Rayonette’s tears long ago dried, but her mother furious.  She would leave Montauban that minute, she would never set foot in a heretic conventicle again, to have her fatherless child, daughter of all the Ribaumonts, struck by base canaille.  Even her uncle could not have done worse; he at least would have respected her blood.