len
timbers. He instantly sprang forward, and used all his strength to drag
it out in so headlong a manner that all the rest hurried to prevent his
reckless proceedings from bringing the heavy beams down on his head.
When brought to light, the object proved to be one of the dark, heavy,
wooden cradles used by the French peasantry, shining with age, but
untouched by fire.

'Look in,' Berenger signed to Philip, his own eyes averted, his mouth
set.

The cradle was empty, totally empty, save for a woolen covering, a
little mattress, and a string of small yellow shells threaded.

Berenger held out his hand, grasped the baby-play thing convulsively,
then dropped upon his knees, clasping his hands over his ashy face, the
string of shells still wound among his fingers. Perhaps he had hitherto
hardly realized the existence of his child, and was solely wrapped up in
the thought of his wife; but the wooden cradle, the homely toy, stirred
up fresh depths of feelings; he saw Eustacie wither tender sweetness as
a mother, he beheld the little likeness of her in the cradle; and oh!
that this should have been the end! Unable to repress a moan of anguish
from a bursting heart, he laid his face against the senseless wood, and
kissed it again and again, then lay motionless against it save for the
long-drawn gasps and sobs that shook his frame. Philip, torn to the
heart, would have almost forcibly drawn him away; but Master Hobbs,
with tears running down his honest cheeks, withheld the boy. 'Don't ye,
Master Thistlewood, 'twill do him good. Poor young gentleman! I know
how it was when I came home and found our first little lad, that we had
thought so much on, had been take. But then he was safe laid in his
own churchyard, and his mother was there to meet me; while your poor
brother---Ah! God comfort him!'

'_Le pauvre Monsieur_!' exclaimed the old peasant, struck at the sight
of his grief, 'was it then his child? And he, no doubt, lying wounded
elsewhere while God's hand was heavy on this place. Yet he might hear
more. They said the priest came down and carried off the little ones to
be bred up in convents.'

'Who?--where?' asked Berenger, raising his head as if catching at a
straw in this drowning of all his hopes.

''Tis true,' added the fisherman. 'It was the holy priest of Nissard,
for he send down to St. Julien for a woman to nurse the babes.'

'To Nissard, then,' said Berenger, rising.

'It is but a chance,' said the old Hug