ish, did he get so much as a 'thank you' for the travail of years!"

"And from Henry of Navarre?" said the Professor of the Sorbonne.

"Why," said Claire Agnew, "I am shamed to own it. But though never a man
needed money more than the King of Navarre, it is on his bounty that we
have been living these four years. He is great and generous!"

"I have heard something less than that said of the Bearnais," answered
the Professor; "yet he is a true Frenchman of the Gascon breed, great to
men, generous to women, hail-fellow-well-met with all the world. But he
loves the world to know it! And now, little lady," said Professor
Anatole, "I must conduct you elsewhere. It is not seemly that a pretty
one like you should be found in this dingy parchment den, counting the
sparrows under the dome of the Sorbonne. Have you any friends in Paris
to whose care I can commit you for the time being?"

"Not one!" cried the girl fiercely; "it is a city of
murderers--Leaguers--our enemies!"

"Gently--fairly, little one," the Professor spoke soothingly; "there
are good men and bad in Paris, as elsewhere; but since you have no
friends here, I must conduct you to Havre de Grace, where we will surely
find a captain biding for a fair wind to take him through Queen Bess's
Sleeve into the North Sea, far on the way for Scotland."

The girl began to cry bitterly, for the first time.

"I have no friends in Scotland, not any more than in France," she said.
"My father was a true man, but of a quick high temper, and such friends
as he had he quarrelled with long ago. It began about his marrying my
mother, who was a little maid out of Roussillon, come to Paris in the
suite of the wife of some Governor of Catalonia who had been made
Spanish ambassador. It was in the Emperor's time, when men were men--not
fighting machines--and priests. My father, Francis Agnew, was
stiff-necked and not given to pardon-asking, save of his Maker. And
though little Colette Llorient softened him to all the world else, she
died too soon to soften him towards his kinsfolk."

The Professor meditated gravely, like one solving a difficult problem.

"What?" he said--"no, it cannot be. Your mother was never little Colette
of the Llorients of Collioure?"

"I have indeed always believed so," said the girl; "but doubtless in my
father's papers----"

"But they are Catholics of the biggest grain, those Llorients of
Collioure, deep-dyed Leaguers, as fierce as if Collioure were in the