h one,' said Arthur, who
had not arrived at the age of gallantry.

'You would never stay there!' said Estelle; 'you would push us over the
rock like Mentor. I think you are our Mentor, for I am sure you tell us
a great deal, and you don't scold.'

'Mentor was a cross old man,' said Ulysse.

To which Estelle replied that he was a goddess; and Arthur very decidedly
disclaimed either character, especially the pushing over rocks. And thus
they glided on, spending a night in the great, busy, bewildering city of
Lyon, already the centre of silk industry; but more interesting to the
travellers as the shrine of the martyrdoms. All went to pray at the
Cathedral except Arthur. The time was not come for heeding church
architecture or primitive history; and he only wandered about the narrow
crooked streets, gazing at the toy piles of market produce, and looking
at the stalls of merchandise, but as one unable to purchase. His mother
had indeed contrived to send him twenty guineas, but he knew that he must
husband them well in case of emergencies, and Lady Nithsdale had sewn
them all up, except one, in a belt which he wore under his clothes.

He had arrived at the front of the Cathedral when the party came out.
Madame de Bourke had been weeping, but looked more peaceful than he had
yet seen her, and Estelle was much excited. She had bought a little
book, which she insisted on her Mentor's reading with her, though his
Protestant feelings recoiled.

'Ah!' said Estelle, 'but you are not Christian.'

'Yes, truly, Mademoiselle.'

'And these died for the Christian faith. Do you know mamma said it
comforted her to pray there; for she was sure that whatever happened, the
good God can make us strong, as He made the young girl who sat in the red-
hot chair. We saw her picture, and it was dreadful. Do read about her,
Monsieur Arture.'

They read, and Arthur had candour enough to perceive that this was the
simple primitive narrative of the death of martyrs struggling for
Christian truth, long ere the days of superstition and division.
Estelle's face lighted with enthusiasm.

'Is it not noble to be a martyr?' she asked.

'Oh!' cried Ulysse; 'to sit in a red-hot chair! It would be worse than
to be thrown off a rock! But there are no martyrs in these days,
sister?' he added, pressing up to Arthur as if for protection.

'There are those who die for the right,' said Arthur, thinking of Lord
Derwentwater, who in Jacobite eyes w