he
hillock. In the gloom he could just distinguish the outline of her
figure, with her elbow on her knee, and her hair blacker than the
shadows themselves. A long-drawn, moaning sound, coming without
warning behind her, caused the girl to turn.

"What is that?" she said, quickly.

"The wind, Jacqueline. It is rising."

As he spoke, like a monster it entered the forest; about them branches
waved and tossed: a friendly star seen through the boughs lost itself
behind a cloud. Yet no rain fell and the air seemed hot and dry,
despite the mists which clung to the ground. A crash of thunder or a
flash of lightning would have relieved that sighing dolor which filled
the little patch of timber with its melancholy sounds.

Suddenly, above the plaint and murmur of wind and forest, the low,
clear voice of the girl arose; the melody was no ballad, arietta or
pastoral, such as he had before heard from her lips, but a simple hymn,
the setting by Calvin. The jester started. How came she to know that
forbidden music? Not only to know, but to sing it as he had never
heard it sung before. Sweetly it vibrated, her waywardness sunk in its
swelling rhythm; its melody freighted with the treasure of her trust.
As he listened he felt she was betraying to him the hidden well of her
faith; the secret of her religion; that she, his companion, was
proclaiming herself a heretic, and, therefore, doubly an outcast.

A stanza, and the melody died away on the wings of the tempest. His
heart was beating violently; he looked expectantly toward her. Even
more gently, like a lullaby to the turbulent night, the full-measured
cadence of the majestic psalm was again heard. Then another voice,
deeper, fuller, blended with that of the first singer. Unwavering, she
continued the song, as though it had been the most natural matter he
should join his voice with hers. Fainter fell the harmony; then ceased
altogether--a hymn destined to become interwoven with terrible
memories, the tragic massacre of the Huguenots on the ill-fated night
of St. Bartholomew. Again prevailed the tristful dirge of the pines.

"You sing well, mistress," said the jester, softly. "Is it true you
are one of a hated sect?"

"As true as that you did not deny the heretic volume found in your
room," she replied.

A silence ensued between them. "It was Marot placed the horses there
for us," she said, at length. "He, too, is a heretic, and would have
saved you."

Ther