ould harm the daughter of Francis the Scot--having me to deal
with, as well as wearing, for the most part, the silver cow-bell at
their girdles--yet a hostelry is no place for a well-favoured Calvinist
maid, and the daughter of Master Francis Agnew!"

"What, then, would you do with her?"

The brow of the King was frowning a little. After all, he thought, had
the girl not followed her father, and been accustomed to the rough side
of the blanket? He had not found women so nice about their accommodation
when a king catered for them.

But a well-timed jest of Jean-aux-Choux concerning the young blades
which the mere sight of Claire would set bickering, caused the Bearnais
to smile, and with a sigh he gave way.

"Well, Anthony the Calvinist, you are an obstinate varlet. Have it as
you will. I am an easy man. But tell me your plans. For, after all, the
girl has been committed to my charge."

The Calvinist innkeeper had his answer ready.

"There dwells," he said, "by the water-side yonder a wise and prudent
wife, whose husband was long at the wars, a sergeant in your Cevenol
levies. She will care for the maid. And if there be need, Madame Granier
knows a door in her back-yard by which, at all times, she can have such
help or shelter as the house of Anthony Arpajon can give her."

"And the Professor of Eloquence?" said Henry, with a quick glance.

"Is he not her uncle--in a way, her guardian?" said Anthony, with an
impenetrable countenance. "She could not be in safer hands. Leave us
also the fool, Jean-aux-Choux, and, by my word, you shall have the first
and the best intelligence of that the King and his wise Parliamenters
may devise. They say my Lord of Guise is soon to be here with a thousand
gentlemen, and such a tail of the commonalty as will eat up all the
decent folk in Blois like a swarm of locusts!"

"Good," said the King of Navarre. "Guise has long been tickling the
adder's tail; he will find what the head holds some fine day, when he
least expects it!"

These were quiet days in the little white house, with only the narrow
quay underneath, and the changing groups of washerwomen, bare-armed,
lilac-bloused, laving and lifting in the tremulous heat-haze of the
afternoon. But somehow they were very dear days to Claire Agnew, and she
clung to the memory of them long afterwards.

She was near enough for safety to the hostelry of the Silver Cow-bell
(presently held by Anthony Arpajon), yet far enough from it to be