Professor came to their assistance.

"As my lady is a D'Albret," he said, "she must be a cousin-germain to
our good Abbe John!"

The girl smiled, and gave her head a little uplift, half of amusement,
half of contempt.

"Ay, truly," she said, "but we are of different religions. I love not
to see a man waste his life on the benches of the Sorbonne; and all for
what--only to wear a red hat when all is done, like my Uncle of
Bourbon!"

The Professor sighed, and thoughtfully rubbed his brow. Then he smiled,
as he answered the girl.

"Ah," he said, "it is always so with you young people. Here am I who
have spent the best part of my life on these very Sorbonne benches,
teaching Eloquence to a party of young jackanapes who had far better
hold their tongues till they have something to say. And for me, no
cardinal's hat at the end of all!"

He sighed a second time, as he added, "Indeed, I know not very well
what, after all, is at the end--certainly not their monkish dreams of
hell, purgatory, paradise!"

The newcomer stepped eagerly forward and laid her hand on his lips.
"Hush," she said, "you have lost your way. You have wandered in your own
mazes of subtlety, and arrived nowhere. Now we of the Faith will lead
you in the green pastures, beside still but living waters, which your
soul shall love!"

The Professor watched the maiden before him a little sadly. Her face was
all aglow with enthusiasm. There was a brilliant light in her eyes.

"Yes, I shall teach you--I, Catherine of Navarre----"

There was a noise outside on the quay.

She turned towards the window to look out. At the first step, a little
halt in her gait betrayed her. The Professor of Eloquence sank on one
knee.

"You are Jeanne d'Albret's own daughter," he said, "her very self, as I
saw her a month before the Bartholomew. Even so she spoke--even so she
walked. The Bearnais hath no philosophy other than his sword and the
ready quip on his tongue. He cares no more for one religion or the other
than the white plume he carries in the front of battle. But not so you."

"Henry of Bourbon-Vendome is my brother," said Catherine, "all king, all
brave man. His faults are not mine--nor mine his. I am, as I said, a
manifest D'Albret. But Henry holds of Bourbon!"

The two young maids mounted to their chamber. Madame Granier was already
there, ordering the bed-linen for the new guest. The girls stood looking
a long while into each other's faces.

"You are pret