BECAUSE OF CONSCIENCE

By Amy E. Blanchard

AN INDEPENDENT DAUGHTER
THREE PRETTY MAIDS
MISS VANITY
HER VERY BEST

12mo. Cloth, illustrated, $1.25
per volume

TWO GIRLS
GIRLS TOGETHER
BETTY OF WYE

12mo. Cloth, illustrated, $1.00
per volume

TWENTY LITTLE MAIDENS

Illustrated by Ida Waugh
Small 4to. $1.25

“Because you have shown me how powerful a shield a woman can be, I stand here”

Page [104]

Because of Conscience

Being a Novel relating to the Adventures
of certain Huguenots in Old New York

By
Amy E. Blanchard
Author of “Her Very Best,” “Betty of Wye,”
“Two Girls,” “Girls Together,”
“Three Pretty Maids,”
etc.

With Frontispiece by
E. Benson Kennedy

Philadelphia & London
J. B. Lippincott Company
1901

Copyright, 1901
By J. B. Lippincott Company
Electrotyped and Printed by
J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U. S. A.

DEDICATED
WITH DEEP AFFECTION AND PROFOUND ADMIRATION
TO
ELIZA ELVIRA KENYON
WHOSE LOVING INTEREST AND LOFTY EXAMPLE
HAVE BEEN MY STAY FOR
MANY YEARS

A. E. B.

CONTENTS

BECAUSE OF CONSCIENCE

CHAPTER I
A WILD MARIGOLD

Nothing in the world smelled so sweet as fresh sun-dried linen, thought Alaine as she watched Michelle heaping the white pile upon her strong arms; unless, indeed, Alaine reflected a moment later, it be a loaf baking in the oven, yet even that did not suggest odorous grass and winds laden with the fragrance of hedge and wood. She lay in the long grass, chin in hands, her brown eyes wandering over the low-growing objects which her position brought easily within her vision. “Now I know what it is to be a creature like Fifi; no wonder he is forever running after the impossible, as it seems to me, for I, gigantically lifted above him, cannot see the objects on a level with his sharp eyes.” She watched her dog darting among the stubble at the edge of the field, and as she idly viewed his gambols her eyes caught sight of a yellow flower growing near the hedge. She lifted her little head with its toss of brown hair, then drew her slender, lithe body from its covert to stand erect and to walk slowly across the open space to gather the wild marigold, at which she gazed thoughtfully, standing so still that her shadow scarcely wavered.

The sudden sharp bark of her little dog roused her, and she turned her head to see some one coming toward her,—a young man swinging along with an easy, confident tread.

“Good-evening, my cousin,” he cried. “You were so deep in thought that I fancied I should not move you till I came near enough to touch you. What are you studying so intently?”

“This.” Alaine held out her yellow blossom. “Tell me, Étienne, does it turn always to the sun, this yellow marigold?”

“Who told you so?”

“Michelle, and she says it was chosen as her device by Margaret of Valois because it does truly resemble the sun. It is likewise the emblem of the Protestants, who say that it signifies that they ever turn to the true source of light,—God in his heaven. Was Margaret of Valois Protestant, Étienne, and——”

“Is Michelle, then, Protestant?” Étienne interrupted her by asking.

“Yes, I think so. I know so. She has a little Bible, Étienne, which she guards sacredly, and she makes long journeys at night to secret meetings, I fancy. She is very good and devout, Étienne, but still——”

“Still you can cry, ‘À bas les Huguenots!’ is it not so? She would make you Protestant, my cousin, would she not?”

Alaine looked up at him gravely from under her long lashes. She wondered how much she dared tell to this cousin to whose opinions she had deferred ever since she could remember.

“Would she not?” he repeated, smiling as he took the flower, with rather too rough a hand, Alaine thought. “Can you say with true spirit, ‘À bas les Huguenots’?” He spoke the words so fiercely that Alaine looked half alarmed, at which he laughed. “There, my cousin,” he continued, “you are too young to be troubled by these questions, and your father is too good a Catholic to let you stray from the fold.”

“But I do not wish to be done with questions. I wish to know about everything, and I mean to ask my father this very night when he returns from Paris. He will tell me, if you will not. I know he will. You are very provoking, Étienne, to treat my questions so,” she pouted. “Give me my flower; I want to wear it.”

“What if I want to wear it?”

“Ah, Étienne, are you, then, a Huguenot?”

“That is nothing to you,” he returned. “I am simply your cousin, Étienne Villeneau. Better trust me, Alainette; I know more than Michelle there; in fact, it is an amusement of mine to follow up all sources of information that will in any way benefit the house of Villeneau, and I will pass over to you anything in the matter of news which may be good for you.”

“Which may be good for me! As if news were like doses of medicine. I will take your news or not, as I like.”

“You will take it whether you like it or not,” he returned, looking at her for a moment with narrowed eyes. “If your father does not return from Paris you will be glad enough to run to me for knowledge of him.”

“Étienne, how can you? My father will return from Paris; he said he would, and he speaks truly at all times.”

“Too truly for once, it is reported. Au revoir, my cousin; when you are ready to hear what I have to tell send me word.” And he turned on his heel.

“You are hateful! a beast, a monster!” Alaine cried after him. “I hate you.”

“I have heard that before,” the young man replied over his shoulder, “and the next day you have told me the opposite.”

“It will not be the next day this time, nor for many days that you hear it,” Alaine retorted. “And you have not given me back my flower. Thief! Robber!”

He tossed the flower on the ground, then, as if urged by an angry impulse, he stopped and ground it with his heel, but immediately after he turned, laughing: “That for your naughtiness, fierce little cousin. Adieu.”

“Go!” she cried. “I am glad to see your wicked body disappear.” Then, half in tears, she ran to Michelle, who had returned from bearing her burden into the house and was now picking up the remaining articles left on the grass to bleach. “Michelle! Michelle!” cried the girl, “that detestable cousin of mine has been teasing me, and has crushed the life out of the little yellow marigold I meant for you. Is he not a beast, Michelle? and how dares he say that there is any doubt of my father’s return?”

“He says that?” exclaimed Michelle, looking startled.

“He did not say just that, but only if my father should not return that I would be glad to run to him for news of him. He will return; say so at once, Michelle.” She shook the good woman’s arm impatiently.

“God grant he returns,” murmured Michelle, gravely. “And your cousin, what further did he say?”

“Very little, except to ask if you were trying to make me Protestant. You would like to have me one, you know, Michelle, but my tender flesh shrinks from the horrors of which you tell me, and that have been going on since before I was born. I have no wish to be dragged through the streets, to be beaten or burned or foully abused in any way, and I do not see how you can be happy with such a possibility hanging over you, Michelle.”

“Listen to the poor little one,” said Michelle to herself. “She little knows of the real terrors that threaten us. And your cousin Étienne, did you tell him I was Protestant?”

“I believe I did, but no doubt he knew it before; and what matters it anyhow to one of the family to whom you have always been so good? Many a scrape have you helped my cousin out of. He would defend you to the last, and so would I, Michelle, Catholic as I am.”

Michelle made no answer. She stood still with her arms clasped around the web of homespun linen which had been bleaching on the grass. Her eyes wandered over the fair fields to the spires of Rouen in the distance, and then to the chateau closer at hand, showing dimly gray through the trees. She shook her head, but turned with a smile to the girl at her side. “Come in, my Alainette,” she said; “it grows late and I have a loaf in the oven. There is no need to be angered by the words of your cousin, he did but tease; and should your father not return to-night, there is no doubt some good reason for his staying.” And Alaine, accustomed as she had been from babyhood to accept Michelle’s adjustments of her difficulties, forgot her late quarrel with her cousin and ran on ahead to satisfy her youthful appetite with the fresh sweet loaf that no one knew better than Michelle how to bake.

The days were over when the Huguenots were an influence, or were at all formidable in politics. They pursued amiably and tranquilly their various avocations. The massacre of St. Bartholomew had occurred over a century before; La Rochelle had fallen more than half a century back, and Protestant subjects were so faithful in their allegiance to the throne that even the reigning sovereign, Louis XIV., acknowledged that his Huguenot servitors had proved their devotion; he had, moreover, promised that the provisions of the Edict of Nantes should be faithfully maintained, yet at this very time a decree was issued fixing the age of seven as that when children were to be allowed to declare their religious preferences, and forbidding parents to send their children out of the country to be educated. In consequence, it was a common thing for children to be enticed from their parents to be placed in the hands of the clergy, or to be persuaded by rewards or coerced by threats to attend mass, and then to be claimed by the Church. One by one the Protestant seats of learning were suppressed, and the consternation of the Huguenots was great.

Beyond this the system of dragonnades had done much toward terrorizing and impoverishing the Protestants, so that again numbers were fleeing the country through every possible means. The times were ripe for the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes.

Of all these things Alaine Hervieu was passingly aware. The horizon of her little world was bounded by Rouen, beyond whose borders she dwelt, spending a quiet and joyous existence with Michelle, her foster-mother and her chief guardian: Michelle with her fund of reminiscences, too often those thrilling and horrifying tales of massacres and persecutions. When Michelle waxed too fierce and terrifying Alaine would fly to her father for diversion, but, to her credit be it said, she never laid the cause of her frights upon her nurse, but rather complained of loneliness and begged that dear papa would tell her tales of his boyhood; of her sainted mother she was quite ready to hear, but of other saints she heard more than enough from Father Bisset, she declared. Something rousing and merry she preferred; and her father, taking her on his knee, would tell her of the Fête des Rois, and would show her the basket of wax fruit won upon one of those festive occasions. Or he would sing her some old song, such as

“Gloria patri ma mere a petri

Elle a faict une gallette,

Houppegay, Houppegay, j’ay bu du cidre Alotel.”

And he would tell her of the time when the Boise of St. Nicaise was dragged away and burned by the young men of St. Godard.

Alaine herself had more than once been taken to the Fête St. Anne to see, running about the streets, the boys dressed as angels and the girls as Virgins, and at Easter Eve she had watched the children when they mocked and hooted at the now scorned herring while the boys pitched barrels and fish-barrows into the river.

But of late it was of other things he told her; of brave resistance by those who fought for freedom of thought; of the loss of position by those who refused to conform to the requirements of state and church; and sometimes he would sing to her in a low voice, from a small book, some of those psalms which Michelle, too, sang.

Alaine once showed the little old book with its silver clasps to her cousin Étienne. “I remember it well,” he told her; “it belonged to our great-grandfather, for in his day the Psalms of David were held in great esteem by the ladies and gentlemen of the court, and once on a time in the heart of Paris, on the favorite promenade, five or six thousand, including the king and queen of Navarre, joined in singing psalms.”

“It must have been fine. I wish I had been there,” Alaine exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Go on, Étienne, what more about the book?”

“It is a seditious thing now,” he returned, turning to the copy of the Hervieu coat of arms on the inside cover. “If we were as zealous as we should be we would burn it, for if it were discovered here trouble might come of it. Let us make a fire of the heretical thing, Alaine.”

“No, no.” Alaine clasped it to her breast. “I like it, Étienne. It is a family relic. I will keep it safely hidden, and no one shall know of it.”

She did keep it safely hidden, and her father never once asked for it, because another book had taken its place; one over which he pored for hours at a time, and which Alaine knew to be a Bible. Was her father turning Protestant? she asked herself.

Within the last few months it was Alaine who tried to divert her father, for often there was a cloud upon his brow, and he was frequently grave and taciturn, so that his daughter tried to set him laughing when she could, and when she could not would take refuge with her cousin Étienne, who lived but a short distance away. He was her elder by ten years, but a good companion for all that, with whom Alaine quarrelled once a day upon an average, and upon whom she penitently used her blandishments when next they met.

She, therefore, was quite ready for Étienne when he appeared upon the terrace the next morning after her latest quarrel with him. “Papa did not come, Étienne,” she cried, jumping up to meet him, “but Michelle says it is nothing; men are often detained so. Come, sit here and tell me what you have done, and how is my aunt; also, if you have that piece of news you offered me yesterday.”

“Am I a thief and robber, then? A monster and a beast?” he asked, sitting down beside her.

“No, you are not; it was yesterday you were those things, and this is to-day.”

“Child!” he exclaimed, “but a woman-child for all. Alainette, would you turn Protestant if your father were one?”

“There, now, you said we were done with that question.”

“It was you who urged it upon me, and who became angry with me because I put you off.”

“Again that was yesterday, and this is to-day, as I told you.”

“Nevertheless, I put the question again.”

“Oh, I don’t know. What would you do if you were I, Étienne?”

“I should do as my conscience and my Church bade me, rather than obey my father.” He looked at her again with those narrowed eyes, the expression of which Alaine was beginning to dread.

“Thank you for your advice, sir. My father is not likely to command me to do anything wrong; and even if he did——”

“Even if he did,” repeated her cousin, “you would be taken to a convent and be separated from him, as you well know. There would be one way out of it, Alaine.”

“And that?” She looked up at him with all the confidence of her youth shining in her piquant little face.

“Would be to marry me,” he said, slowly.

The blood rushed to the girl’s face and she sprang to her feet. “How dare you say such a thing, Étienne? It is for your mother and my father to arrange a matter like that. Besides,”—she burst into a sob,—“I—I don’t want to be married. I don’t want to go to a convent either. Why do you come here troubling me with such dreadful things, Étienne? I hate you for it.”

He caught her hands and looked down closely into her dark eyes. “No you don’t; you love me for it.”

“I do not! I do not!” she cried, passionately. “I detest you. Monster, beast! Monster, beast! Hear me, I say it again and again. I hate you, hate you, hate you!” And having wrested one hand from his grasp, she gave him a stinging blow on the ear.

He loosed his grasp of her and pushed her from him. “You shall pay me for that,” he said, his breath coming quickly, as he sprang to his feet.

Alaine, frightened at what she had done, shrank from him. “I—I never did so before, did I, Étienne? I—I was so surprised, you see.” She made a faint attempt to smile, but there was no response from her cousin. She remembered vaguely that she had once or twice before seen him thus angry, and she also remembered that her aunt had told her that Étienne was very vindictive. “It would not be proper for me to say that I would marry you, Étienne,” she said, wistfully. “You know we must not think of such things; Michelle says we must not, and Mother Angelique says that it is very wrong. It really would not be proper for me to tell you that I would marry you.”

“You shall tell no one else,” he said, fiercely, “and you will have to do it soon or——”

“Or what?” She crept closer to him and laid her hand on his arm.

He looked down at her, the resentment in his face fading into something like compassion. “Listen, Alaine; your father will not come back to-day; one cannot say that he ever will. He has announced himself a Huguenot, and has disappeared, we know not where.”

Alaine fixed her great eyes on him. Suddenly she dropped her childish coaxing tone. “Are you telling me the truth, Étienne? I am—yes, I am nearly a woman. A girl of fifteen has a right to decide for herself as you say. Tell me, are you merely teasing me, or is this the truth?”

“It is the truth, and at any moment this place may be given over to the dragonnades. Will you stay? If you do not come to us your case will be pitiable, indeed. I have not said anything as yet to my mother, for you know her state of health, but you will be safe with us, Alaine.”

“And Michelle, she must go too.”

“No, she must not. She is Protestant, and must take the risks with those she has chosen.”

“Étienne! and after all these years that you have known her, and when she has done you more than one good service.”

“We cannot remember anything but that she is an enemy of the Church.”

“You have said that if my father commanded I must not obey, therefore I will learn his commands, if I can. You would not desire to marry a Huguenot, Étienne.”

“That need not disturb you just now; the main thing is your safety.”

“And if I refuse to leave Michelle?”

“You know the consequences.”

“Do you think, then, that Father Bisset will not speak for me? Have I ever neglected my religious duties? And the Mother Angelique, will she not answer for me?”

“Once you go to them you will find closer bonds than those with which I would bind you.”

“But they love me.”

“Because they love you they would keep you. It has been weeks since you saw Mother Angelique, and as for Father Bisset, how long since you have had a call from him? At this moment he is on his way to Holland, unless, indeed, he has been overtaken, the poor miserable apostate.”

“How do you know? How do you know?”

“I am neither deaf nor blind. I see what is before me and I hear what is told me.”

“It is the Revocation which is doing all this,” cried Alaine. “Michelle told me so. Dear Father Bisset! Would he had told me he was going and had given me his blessing before he fled! I hope he will escape in safety.”

“I hope he will not,” returned Étienne, savagely.

Alaine turned and looked at him, then paced up and down the walk, her hands folded against her breast, her eyes bent upon the ground. Her brain was in a whirl, but by degrees she collected herself sufficiently to say, “Étienne, my cousin, I am but a young and not overwise girl, and I cannot decide this thing while you are here to disconcert me. Leave me to-day, and do not come near me till I have thought this over. You have thrust a hard alternative upon me, but I see that I must meet it. I will believe that you intend the best for me, but I must have time to think. To-morrow I will tell you what I will do. It is good of you to allow me the privilege of choosing my own way, for I can see that it might be otherwise; that, in the absence of my father, you and my aunt have the right to exercise a control, or that you might at once report me to the authorities, who would not hesitate to send me whither they would. I am safe here, in my own home, till to-morrow you think?”

“Yes, I am sure you are.”

“Then, leave me, please. Give my duty to my aunt and thank you, Étienne.” She looked up into his face as if searching for something she did not find. “Étienne, you forgive me for what I did yesterday? I was very rude. You do not bear resentment against me for it?”

The look she dreaded came into his eyes. “Would I wish to marry you if I did?” he returned, but without a smile.

She let him go, not adding another word; and when he was beyond hearing she sank again upon the bench where they two had sat together. Marriage with Étienne; she had never thought of it, and suddenly she realized that her whole nature shrank from it. She dropped her face in her hands, for a moment sitting very still, then, with a swift determination, she ran to find her nurse.

“Michelle, Michelle,” she cried, taking the good woman’s comforting arms and folding them around herself, “I am sorely pressed. Tell me what to do. My father, did you know? he is Protestant. Étienne has just told me of his admission, and that he has disappeared, he could not tell where. Oh, Michelle, what shall I do? What shall I do? I am afraid of Étienne, I am afraid.”

The mother look on Michelle’s broad face deepened into one of anxiety. “My lamb! My lamb!” she murmured. “An hour of great distress is at hand. Yes, I know. I have known for some time, but for your sake, my pretty one, your father has not declared his convictions for fear you would be stolen from him.”

“And now! Ah, Michelle!” She then told of her cousin Étienne’s proposal and her own distress. “Ah, that I knew my father’s desires!” she cried. “Shall I ever see him again? If I thought I could find him I would hie me forth this very night.”

“And forsake all else?”

“Yes, yes.”

“You would be willing to become a refugee for his sake? You would give up the protection and comfort you would find in your aunt’s home to become a wanderer? You would give up your Church?”

“Yes, and more, if it gave me a chance to again be united to my father; a thousand times yes. Those whom I love best upon earth, whom from childhood I have been accustomed to obey, have become Protestants, why should an ignorant girl dare to say they are not right? My father, you, and Father Bisset, have you not all been my teachers and guardians? Shall I forsake you now?”

“My infant! My child of the good heart!” cried Michelle, weeping copiously. “I am the one to lead you forth from your own country, and I cannot hesitate.” She thrust her hand under the kerchief folded across her bosom and drew forth a paper. “Read,” she said, holding it out to the girl.

“From my father!” cried Alaine. “What does he say?” She took the letter and read rapidly. “He sees danger ahead; he does not know how it will result. Some one has contrived to undermine him when he felt safe, and he may have to make an effort to escape to England or to Holland. Listen, Michelle: ‘Should my daughter desire to remain in France, or should she declare herself unable to accept my belief, do not urge her, but allow her to remain with her relations, and bear to her my love and last blessing. But should she wish to join me in London, Christian friends at the French church on Threadneedle Street will be able to give her word of me if I succeed in making my escape. We can no longer, my good Michelle, expect tolerance, now that the Edict of Nantes has been revoked, and for your own sake I would advise you to leave the country. But my little daughter, should you desert her, where will her comfort be?’

“Ah, Michelle,” the tears rained down Alaine’s cheeks, “let us go. Take me with you, dear Michelle. I shall not care to live without you and papa. Take me; let us go.”

“My dear little one, have you thought well upon it? The way is full of danger. Are you willing to share the lot of a poor Huguenot? Can you be content in poverty and in a strange land?”

“Yes, yes, no matter what comes, I am willing to face it. Teach me my father’s belief, Michelle, so that he may know that we are one in all things.”

“We shall have to start before to-morrow dawns,” said Michelle, after a moment’s thought.

“So much the better, for I promised my cousin that he should have my answer to-morrow. He will find it here. We must not let the servants know. We will say that we go to the city to join my father.”

“Say nothing, but come to my room after dark this night. I have thought of little else this day. I was up betimes, for the letter came to me by the hand of a friend last night, and I did but wait for a proper time to reveal its contents to you. Your father foresaw this days ago. He told me where I should find money. I have sewed it into the hem of my petticoat. You will be disguised as a boy. I have the clothes ready.”

“Where did you get them?”

“From my sister. They belonged to her son. We will set out before dawn and carry eggs to market.”

“We will stand in no danger of being intercepted?”

“I think not. Go now, my pretty one, and try to be as like yourself as possible. In these days one does not know who may be friend or foe. I have prepared a chest, which I shall send out during the day by one of my own faith. He will carry it safely to Dieppe for us, and we shall not need to leave all behind.”

“Poor little Fifi, I shall have to leave him. Jean will be good to him I hope.” She turned away sadly as a realizing sense of what she must forsake came over her.

It was a long, weary day for the girl, who occupied herself feverishly in such ways as would seem most usual to the servants. “Never again will I see my home,” she said over and over again. Over an unknown way to an unknown land, the thought would now and again terrify her, but her heart leaped as she thought of her father, and more than once Michelle heard her clear young voice singing an old madrigal. “Child of the good heart,” she would sigh, “she little knows of what is before her. It is but the strange journey to a strange land of which she thinks, the poor little one.”

The house was very still when Alaine crept from her room and presented herself before the door of Michelle’s chamber. The housekeeper’s room was not far from her own, for Michelle was something more than servant and scarcely less than one of the family. “Are you ready, Michelle?” came Alaine’s whisper.

The door opened cautiously and she went in. “Can I help you?” she asked. “We are to be comrades from now henceforth, Michelle; let us not stand upon ceremony,” she added, sweetly, as she saw her companion hesitated to ask a service.

“If you will help me, dear child, to roll my Bible into my hair. I must carry it so lest it be discovered. It will not show?”

“Not at all.” Alaine viewed the arrangement critically. “What have I to do?”

“First I must crop your abundance of brown locks. A boy has not such a crop of hair.” And she relentlessly clipped the shining tresses, which slipped to the ground in soft coils. Alaine laughed to see herself, at last, clad in the blouse of a peasant lad, a cap set upon her short curls, her slender hands stained and even scratched. “They will then look more in keeping with my character,” the girl said, gayly.

Then out into the night they slipped; Michelle with basket on arm, Alaine with one hand inside her blouse clasping tightly the small Beza psalm-book; from henceforth it would mean more than a family relic. One last look at the gray walls of her home looming up darkly against the starry sky, and Alaine whispered, “Forever! forever!” then she followed Michelle down the dusty road to where Rouen lay sleeping by the river Seine.

The streets of the city when the fugitives reached it were full of armed men, who rode about the town changing place as soon as they had compelled those upon whom they were quartered to sign their act of conformation. They seemed to be everywhere, and Alaine shrank closer to Michelle as she noted the haughty, overbearing look of the soldiers. “Be of good heart, little one,” Michelle whispered. “Remember you are no longer Alaine Hervieu, but Jacques Assire, my son, and we live in the direction of Dieppe; we return to our home when we have sold our eggs. Name of Grace! but one sees a woebegone set of countenances here; it is pitiful indeed. We have escaped none too soon; the dragonnades are in full force, as you see, and if we would not be witnesses to worse sights than the driving forth of women and children into the streets we will not tarry long. It is early yet, but none too early for our purpose.”

And, indeed, Michelle had hardly exchanged her eggs for some of the homely commodities which a peasant might be supposed to buy, when issuing from a shop across the narrow street Alaine caught sight of her cousin Étienne. “Michelle, Michelle, do not look; my cousin is there on the other side,” the girl said, in a shrill whisper.

Michelle needed no second warning, but, proving equal to the occasion, re-entered the shop, where she was well known, and where she held a brief consultation with the shopkeeper, which resulted in the conducting of the two through a back way into one of the riverside streets, where numerous inns and drinking-places stood to the right and left. Here sailors rolled jauntily along, and here wonderful old houses, each story overlapping the one below, loomed up over the heads of the passers-by. A few steps away was the Rue Harenguerie, and here in the midst of the cries and chatterings of the fish-wives it was easy to lose one’s self. Across on the opposite bank was the favorite promenade of the ladies of the town. Alaine had often been there with her aunt among the careless pleasure-seekers, but now she watched anxiously the stolid countenance of Michelle, who elbowed her way through the market, and at last stopped upon its outskirts, where, after some chaffering with a sharp-eyed man, she appeared satisfied, and turned with a smile to her charge.

“Here we go,” she said. “Yonder is the cart which will take us in the direction of Dieppe; but, alas! my little one, you have been looked upon too suspiciously; yours is no peasant face, and despite your dress you may be detected, for I gather enough to know that it is going to be no easy task to get away safely. However, if you can be content with a bed of cabbages and a coverlet of carrots you shall be transported without harm. As for me, I am weather-beaten enough to pass easily, yet we must wait till evening before we start. Meantime, under yonder cart is your refuge, and I will stay here pretending to sell fish.”

In the dimness of twilight Alaine was established uncomfortably enough on her bed of cabbages, and over her were lightly piled some overturned baskets which were to hide her from view. She could breathe easily and could move slightly, but the journey was long, and more than once there were moments of terror when the cart was stopped and the driver questioned. Michelle, however, was always equal to the occasion, and by daybreak the small fishing village toward which their faces were set was in sight, and by high noon the refugees were on their way to England.

CHAPTER II
THE FEAST OF THE FAT CALF

In the little village of New Rochelle there was a great jollification on a day in June which marks the feast of John the Baptist. From one of the houses erected on the side of the high street could be heard a voice singing clearly the Huguenot battle psalm,—

“Oh, Lord, thou didst us clean forsake

And scatter all abroad,”—

and from a doorway a girl’s face peeped out. “They are making ready, Mère Michelle,” she cried, stopping her song. “Hurry with the loaves, I see Gerard coming now; the men are gathering from every direction. Hola, Gerard, is it a very fat calf?” she cried to the young man, who waved his cap to her as he approached.

“A lusty young creature, indeed,” he replied, as he came near. “Are the loaves ready?”

“Mère Michelle is but now placing them in the baskets. It will be a fine day for the feast, Gerard. Some one said there were new-comers in the village to swell the crowd.”

“So there are, and to share the feast. The number increases. Hasten, good mother,” he cried, and from the inside room from which issued odors of newly baked bread came Michelle, her honest face wreathed in smiles. “Papa has been hurrying me this half-hour, as if one would take underdone bread from the oven. Yet I see the occasion approaches; the procession is forming.”

“And I must be there. You will soon be ready, you and Alaine. I shall see you with the others.” And he went off bearing his two baskets of fresh loaves.

Mère Michelle settled her cap. Alaine gave a glance at herself in the tiny mirror, smoothed down her black silk gown, and tucked a stray lock behind her ear. “Will I do, Mère Michelle?” she asked.

Michelle looked at her critically. “Your silver chain, my dear; a maid needs a bit of ornament. But hasten, for I hear sounds of shouting and singing coming nearer and nearer.”

Alaine clambered up the ladder which led to her little loft chamber, and speedily returned decked out with her silver chain. She caught Michelle’s hand and hurried her along. The clumsy latch of the door clicked behind them and they stepped out into the glory of the June weather.

Up the little street the procession trooped: a fat calf well garlanded was being led along amid cheers and voluble chatterings. This was the yearly fee to John Pell, lord of the manor of Pelham, in return for having conveyed to Jacob Leisler six thousand acres of land on which was built the village of New Rochelle. The merry crowd was every few steps augmented by new participants, who joined it as it passed along, and all trooped towards the place of presentation. A great ceremony this, a feast always following the acceptance of the calf, and the sober Huguenots became for the occasion lively Frenchmen. The appearance of the huge joints and stacks of fowls and venison piled up before them served as an assurance that even here in this wild country one might still enjoy an occasional fête-day.

“La, la!” cried Mère Michelle, “it does my eyes good, my friend, to see such an indulgence of mirth; it was not so a couple of years ago, eh, Alainette?”

“Where is Papa Louis?” said Alaine, her soft eyes taking in the scene, “Ah, here he is, and here comes Gerard bringing a stranger.”

“Be wary of strangers,” was Michelle’s warning.

But it did not take Michelle’s words to teach Alaine discretion; she had learned her lesson well in these two years; moreover, she did not quite like the crafty expression in the eyes of the young man who bowed before her.

“’Tis good to hear one’s own tongue spoken without hesitation,” said the stranger. “I am come up from New York, where I hear little except a vile Dutch tongue and that brain-splitting English. One finds great relief in this gay company, as much from the merry occasion as from the association. Your brother was good enough to accede to my request to present me. He is your brother, is he not?”

“The son of my mother’s husband,” returned Alaine, sedately. “He is my step-brother.”

“Ah! and yonder rosy-faced good wife is your mother? You do not resemble her, mademoiselle.”

“I resemble my own father,” replied Alaine, steadily.

“And from what part of France are you? Madame Mercier should be from Normandy. I am at home there. I was born in Rouen.”

“Yes?” Alaine tried to look indifferent, but her eyes were taking in every detail. She had a dim consciousness of having seen this face before. “I was not born there,” she added. “The Merciers are not from there, and in these days, monsieur, one’s birthplace is of less account than that place where he will meet his death.”

“Yes, yes; quite true, when one is in a wild and savage country. M. Mercier, is it he standing yonder by his son? The son has overtopped his father by many inches.”

“That is M. Mercier. But listen, some one is starting up a song of praise, and I see my brother comes for me.”

“I say but au revoir, mademoiselle.”

Alaine made a slight inclination of her head. She did not like the confident tone. “Gerard,” she whispered as he led her away, “who is the man? He is too inquisitive for my liking. He does not sing, either. I hope he is not some evil, prying creature. I told him but little, whatever he may have desired to know.”

“What did you tell him?” asked Gerard.

“I said only that you were my step-father’s son and that I was not born in Rouen.”

Gerard laughed. “Discreet little Alainette. Come and tell Papa Louis; it will amuse him. Do you know it is over two years, Alaine, since we left England, and more than a year since we came away from Martinique?”

“Those long journeys, how I remember them with horror, Gerard! Two years ago I was Alaine Hervieu and you were Gerard Legrand; to-day we are both children of the same parents and of the name of Mercier.”

“Than whom no better parents exist. For our sakes, Alaine, what have they not done?”

“So, my children, what gives you so grave an aspect?” inquired Papa Louis, as they approached the spot where he and his wife were waiting for them that they might continue their homeward way.

“We were talking of you, Papa Louis,” retorted Alaine, with a flash of mischief in her eyes.

“And so you were grave,” he laughed. “Enough, indeed, am I for gravity, as Michelle says when I tramp with muddied feet upon her clean floor, or when I do not praise her cooking in fine enough terms. The good Michelle, to stand a mulish husband who is so obstinate not to see the virtue of neatness. A year and more married and no improvement; no wonder you are serious, Alaine.”

“My life, but you invent mockeries, Louis,” said Michelle. “Who was the young man to whom you were talking, my daughter?”

“M. Dupont, from Rouen,” she returned, calmly.

Michelle started. “And you told him—what?”

“I told him nothing save that you were my mother, Papa Louis your husband, Gerard my brother by marriage. Was not that enough?”

“Enough, and not too much,” said Papa Louis, patting her hand. “Where did you meet him, Gerard?”

“He came up with some visitors from Manhatte.”

“He remains for some time?”

“But so long as it suits him.”

“He must not meet you again, Alaine.” Michelle spoke with anxious voice. “Avoid him. He may have recognized you as it is, for he is a friend of your cousin Étienne’s.”

“And what of that? I am far removed from my cousin Étienne, and beyond his anger, thanks to you, good mother.”

“You cannot be sure of that.”

“Ah, foolish one,” said Papa Louis, “how can he reach her here in a free country? You are right, Alaine; you need not fear.”

“I do not.” She threw back her head with a movement expressive of her feeling of unchecked action. “I fear no one now.”

“But you will not tell him your name,” Michelle urged, still anxious. “Do me so small a favor as this, Alaine.”

“I have already told him I am Alaine Mercier, and I shall not likely meet him again.”

“Yet promise me.”

“If it please you, yes, I promise. Now, Papa Louis, why do you not make Gerard promise the same thing on his part?”

Papa Louis rubbed his hands together and chuckled. He was a little man, with an eager, gentle face. He stooped slightly and had the air of a student rather than of a peasant or a mechanic. Gerard towered far above him.

“Papa Louis and I have nothing to lose,” said the young man. “Those from whom all has been taken have nothing to conceal. Every one knows our story.”

“Still,” said the cautious Michelle, “I would not be too free to tell it.”

“Maman has not yet lost her fear of the dragonnades,” remarked Papa Louis. “She cannot quite grasp the fact that we are utterly safe, and wakes up with a dread of having insolent soldiers quartered upon her before night.”

“Which is not true,” maintained Michelle, sturdily; “but, Louis, I know too much not to feel that the long arm of resentment can stretch across seas.”

Papa Louis raised his hands. “She speaks well, this wife of mine. She has acquired a glibness of speech which is truly remarkable.”

“That comes from association with you, Papa Louis,” laughed Alaine, taking his arm. “Let us be going. Mère Michelle’s bread has disappeared like dew before the sun; we shall get no more though we stay here all night. Take maman with you, Gerard, and Papa Louis and I will follow. I think we should celebrate the day, too,” she said to M. Mercier, “for it is due to that same accomplishment of making such excellent bread that we are here to-day.”

“True, my daughter,” returned her companion. “See, we will deck maman.” And picking up a discarded wreath from the ground, he ran forward and flung it around his wife’s neck.

“Am I, then, a fat calf?” spluttered Michelle, indignant at this assault upon her dignity.

“No, no, maman, you are honored because of your able pursuance of a craft which brought us here,” said Alaine, kissing her. “Let me see, we will rehearse it all as we walk along, that you may understand why Papa Louis, in a burst of gratitude, has so decorated you. We met two years ago on shipboard. We remember it, do we not, Gerard? You with your tutor, Papa Louis there, and I with my foster-mother, Mère Michelle. You were dressed as a girl, and in your petticoats, as well as in Mère Michelle’s, were sewed some gold pieces, while in my blouse I carried my book of psalms, and Papa Louis carried the leaves of his Bible stitched in his coat. We became friends when you believed me a boy and I believed you a girl. How astonished we were when we discovered that we might well exchange places, and how soon those gold pieces melted away in England! and in Martinique, what distress we endured! so hungry and forlorn were we. Then did maman happily think of baking bread and selling it. A good trade it was and one that satisfied our own hunger, for we could eat the stale loaves. And when Papa Louis fell ill did Mère Michelle nurse him while you and I watched the loaves in the oven. You would tell me of your home in La Rochelle, and of your escape after your father and mother were dragged away, and I would relate of our weary watching for my father, of whom not a word could we learn in London. Then—be patient, maman, we are coming to the end of the story—because there was still not freedom for us in Martinique, said Papa Louis, ‘Had I but the money for the passage we would go to New England,’ and that day you, Mère Michelle, found a gold coin where it had slipped into a seam of your petticoat, and not long after papa remembered a jewel which he still retained for Gerard. Then said he, ‘When we can earn enough we will go as a family, my good Michelle, if you will. These are our children, Alaine and Gerard Mercier, and you are Madame Mercier if you consent, for we have been comrades in misfortune this year past, and my life, which your nursing has saved, is yours.’ Was it not so, maman? So now, because of the happy thought of the bread which did sustain us all, and because of your industry in baking and selling the good bread which all were so eager to buy, we at last managed to save enough to bring us here, and we are one family. So, now, to-day, on which they celebrate the feast of John Baptist, at home in dear France, and here does honor to the fat calf, we will also have a feast of the loaves, and you shall always be crowned queen of the feast. Shall it not be so, Papa Louis? Shall it not, Gerard?”

The recital of the tale and the honor bestowed upon her so overcame Mère Michelle that her dignity lost itself in tears, and she fell on the neck of her little husband, who braced himself to receive her weight, and patted her comfortingly on the back, while Alaine and Gerard started up a joyful psalm, then ran on ahead down the woodland path towards the village, saying they would prepare a reception at home.

The sound of merry voices had not ceased in the direction of the place of the feast. The occasion was one not only for the expression of ordinary joy, but it served to voice a deeper note, that of thanksgiving for an escape from persecution, and to the rollicking songs were added psalms of praise, those psalms so long denied utterance to the patient band of Huguenots now setting up their homes in this new world.

The woods sweetly smelling in the June weather, the soft odors arising from the sea-salt marshes, the glimpses of the blue sound, the peeping up here and there of unfamiliar blossoms beneath their feet, all these things awoke in the hearts of Alaine and Gerard a strange new feeling of unfettered joyousness, and in sheer good fellowship Gerard reached out a hand to clasp the girl’s as they walked home. “You look very happy, my sister,” he said. “Not since we left England’s shores have I seen you so.”

“It is good to live,” Alaine answered, raising her face to the sky. “To be young and free and hopeful is much. On days like this, Gerard, I always believe that I shall see my father again. Do you feel so?”

“No, I do not. Papa Louis has always warned me against an encouragement of hope in that direction. He thinks there is no doubt but that my father and mother are with the good God.”

“So he tells me, but Mère Michelle says that it is possible that my father may have become an engagé; that thought is to me more terrible than the other, for if he is with the good God he is at peace, but otherwise he is suffering misery at the hands of masters. And oh, Gerard, you have told me how you saw those miserable ones tied two and two, walking in procession like criminals, or wretchedly bound in a cart. Ah, me, to be sold into slavery, yes, that is worse than death for a Huguenot. We saw at Martinique many of those unfortunates, and the thought that my father may be one such as those is too dreadful to endure. No, I myself am readier to believe that he is somewhere in hiding, and that he will yet discover us. So many escaped to Holland who eventually have reached England, and our friends of the church in London are aware of our arrival here, therefore I take the hope to my heart that my father and I may yet meet. Meanwhile, I am willing to work hard in gratitude to those dear parents of our adoption.”

“And I, too, Alaine. We must do our share for their sakes, for they have spared no pains to help us. Papa Louis has never been strong since that dreadful fever on the island, and besides, a man who has spent his days poring over books, what is he to till the ground or to work at the looms?”

“You grow so tall and strong, Gerard, I think you look a man already. I, too, grow strong and hardy in this good salt air. I trust I may grow in grace likewise,” she added, piously. “I cared not once much about that, Gerard, but these sore trials have sobered me.” Then her fresh young voice took up the psalm,—

“Sus, sus, mon ame, il te faut dire bien

De l’Eternal: ô mon vrai Dieu, combien

Ta grandeur est excellent et notoire!”

Gerard joined in, and hand in hand they continued their way through the woods and up the path to their home, Papa Louis and Michelle following, the latter still garlanded.

Gerard and Alaine fled laughing to the little loft chamber, and presently down came a lad in a blouse too small for the expanding figure, and following, a girl in very short petticoat and coarse chemise.

“La, la!” cried Michelle. “Here they are, the bad ones. Look, papa, did you ever know such mischiefs? They have grown, in truth, these two years. Such short petticoats, Gerard, and your blouse, Alaine, is far too small; you can scarce meet it. Another year and you cannot wear the garments, my children. Put them away and keep them as a reminder that the grace of God has lent you the name of Mercier.”

A knock at the door silenced their laughter. Alaine shrank behind Michelle’s broad back, and Gerard, looking rather foolish in his short petticoat, retreated into a corner. Papa Louis opened the door to welcome a neighbor, M. Therolde. Behind him came the stranger whom Alaine had met at the fête. “A little frolic to end the day’s entertainment,” said Papa Louis. “My children are attired for our amusement. You will excuse their costumes, gentlemen. Come forward, Gerard; your petticoats are none too short that they need stand in the way of a greeting to our friends. And you, my daughter, need not mind masquerading in your brother’s clothes upon a fête-day.”

“We but stopped to give you thanks for the acceptable addition to our feast, Madame Mercier,” said Jacob Therolde. “Truly, madame distinguishes herself in the baking of excellent bread. Not a fragment was left; the good wives even saved the crusts, nor would let the dogs have them. You have changed places, eh, my children? Come, M. Dupont, we are promised at home.”

“It was an ill-timed call,” complained Michelle, when the guests had departed. “I saw that young man view you with all too familiar eyes, Alaine. I wish he might never be seen here again. I do not like him, nor ever did.”

“There, maman, there,” began Papa Louis, “do not discompose yourself; we must be merry to-night. Your little bird will not hop so far out of your sight that she will be snared. A beaker of wine will we drink in health to us all, and then Gerard and I must see to our chores, for it is later than it would seem; the long day was over an hour ago.”

CHAPTER III
THE WAY TO CHURCH

“It is a long walk, my child,” Papa Louis was saying; “you should not think of taking it.”

“But try me, papa,” Alaine persisted, “and if I tire myself there may be cars to take me in. Is it not so, Mother Michelle? Surely the Bonneaux or the Allaires or the Sicards are no stronger than I; and even if there be no room, or no cars going in the morning, I can walk.”

“She must have her will at all times, the little one,” Papa Louis said, with a sigh of resignation. “See you, then, Gerard, that maman does not over-fatigue herself, and so you will go ahead, Michelle, and we follow in the morning. We shall needs be up by break of day, Alaine.”

Already the sound of the low-wheeled wagons could be heard rumbling down the one street of the town; these “cars” with their canvas tops, their deep felloes and turned spokes, were thoroughly French in appearance; they were filled with women and children, only the very little ones being left at home with some care-taker. By the side of the wagons walked the men in sabots, and carrying their shoes and stockings in their hands. Each man was well armed, for the way through the deep forests was full of possible dangers. Upon the soft silence of the summer evening arose the plaintive strains of a hymn. The march to church had begun, although it was still Saturday evening. “O Lord, Thou didst us clean forsake,” chimed in the voices of Gerard and Michelle as they, too, joined the company, dressed in their Sunday clothes, a touch of color giving evidence of the fact that, sober and earnest as were these people, they were still truly French.

Down the street the troop went, their hymn, which they invariably sang upon starting, echoing along the way. They were always singing, these Huguenots, as if they could never make up for those days when their psalms were denied them. Alaine watched till the last figure became hidden by the trees, then she turned to say, “The poor little cow, it would scarce be right to leave her, and you well know, Papa Louis, that I would be wretched to know you were here alone. I do not mind the long walk nor the early start, and by morning I hope our Petite Etoile will have regained her health; she would be a sore loss.”

Papa Louis looked grave. It had been a struggle to acquire even the little they had, though it was of the plainest. Theirs was a long, low-pitched house, with a big living-room below and two loft chambers above. In the former could be seen two beds with blue linen curtains, a couple of chests, a small table octagonal in form, a little mirror in gilded frame. By the huge fireplace hung the warming-pan, and there was a brass candlestick upon the shelf above it. A gun and powder-horn were hung within easy reach of Papa Louis’s arm. In the fireplace swung two iron pots on long cranes, and at the side hung a bright kettle. Two spinning-wheels, of course, held their places, but now their drowsy hum was hushed, for Alaine, stepping briskly back and forth, prepared the supper. From time to time she looked out of the open door toward the barn just beyond the garden, now brave in summer blossoms. The pretty young cow had been joyously welcomed, and now a wicked wolf had torn her sleek skin so that Papa Louis must needs doctor her. “He is so skilful, that Papa Louis,” said Alaine to herself, pausing, wooden tankard in hand; “he knows herbs and simples well; his book knowledge has served him more than once, the dear little papa. And how he loved his garden! It is well that Gerard has a strong arm for the furrows, else the corn would not look as well as the flowers. Mère Michelle can guide a plough and handle a scythe better than her husband. How we laughed, Gerard and I, when she first taught papa to follow the plough! the poor little papa, he was so determined and so patient, while big Mère Michelle scolded and encouraged and laughed.” She took her tankard out to the well, which stood in front of the door. Guiding the long sweep till the bucket touched the clear water below, she waited till it filled and then drew it up, balanced it on the curb, and poured the water into the trough. At this instant Papa Louis appeared leading the cow. “Good!” cried Alaine. “He brings her for a drink, poor pretty Etoile. It was fortunate that she was not far off when Gerard heard her cry, else she would have fed the wicked wolf ere now.” Over the orderly rows of vegetables she looked to see Papa Louis advance.

“We shall have no milk to-night,” he told her, “yet she becomes better, and I think to-morrow will see her safe, so we can start betimes.”

Alaine with gentle hand stroked the soft ears of the cow, which eagerly drank from the trough and was led back to the barn; then the girl filled her tankard and bore it indoors.

“I must go to see Alexandre Allaire,” said Papa Louis when the simple meal was over. “I shall have to leave you alone here for a short time, my daughter, but there is nothing to fear. I greatly desire to know where we stand in the matter of a new church; a deep longing for it takes possession of us all, and I trust the day is not distant when we can rear the walls of a new temple here in the wilderness.”

By the time he had disappeared behind the leafy trees just beyond the newly set out orchard Alaine had cleared away the supper dishes and ran out for a last look at her fowls. They must be well secured, and there was no Michelle there to spy out a possible loophole where wild creatures could make an entrance. Assuring herself that all was safe, she returned to the house. As she entered the sitting-room, by the dim light she saw sitting a figure bending over the little table.

“Ah, mademoiselle, I am indeed fortunate,” said François Dupont, who put down the book he had been holding and advanced to meet her. “I feared you might have gone with the others upon the long journey to Manhatte, yet I did not see you among the train as they passed, and, therefore, I ventured here in hopes of finding you.”

Alaine retreated a step. What ill fate had given her an interview with this man whom she had hoped never to see again?

“And I was fortunate,” he repeated, “Mademoiselle—Hervieu.”

Alaine started, but recovered herself to say, steadily, “My father, M. Louis Mercier, will be here in a moment to welcome you, monsieur. I regret that Madame Mercier, my mother, is not here to entertain you.”

M. Dupont looked at her with a half-smile curling his lips. “All of which sounds very well, mademoiselle, but does not alter the fact that Mademoiselle Hervieu, herself, does not seem over-glad to meet an old acquaintance.”

“An old acquaintance? An exceedingly short acquaintance. It was at the Feast of the Fat Calf that I met you, and since then not at all.”

“But that was not our first meeting: I remember a charming child who visited her aunt one day, when I was also there, and to whom I offered some cherries which I had gathered; I snatched them from her before she had a taste of them, and I remember how I chased the little maid around the garden and made her give me a taste of her cherry lips in exchange for the fruit. I have not forgotten the pretty little incident, Mademoiselle Hervieu, although it was some years ago, and you were but a gay and happy child.”

Alaine stood silent, but there was fierce anger in her eyes. He dared remind her now. She looked helplessly from one side to the other, then she lifted her chin with a haughty gesture. “Monsieur, your imagination quite exceeds your memory. I declare to you that I have not the honor of your acquaintance.”

He laughed mockingly. “She has very much the air of a peasant, this child of the good honest Michelle of the bourgeois face. Strange how she resembles her mother.” He glanced at the girl’s slim hands and feet, and his eyes travelled back to the well-set little head and the fine oval of the fair face. “So closely does she resemble her mother that I can well imagine how she will look some twenty-five years from now.” He laughed again. “We of the upper class do not mind amusing ourselves with a peasant lass, mademoiselle, and so you cannot be surprised if I steal a second kiss, since you repudiate the one you gave me six or eight years ago.” He made a step toward her, and Alaine shrank back with a little cry. “Monsieur,” she said, in a low, strained voice, “what is your motive in all this?”

“Ah-h! she comes to herself; the peasant lass is no more; she was too much for Mademoiselle Hervieu. I but desire to press my claim to your acquaintance, and to urge you to return to the home which is still open to you; to say that, as the friend of your cousin, Étienne Villeneau, I desire to do him the favor of returning the lady of his love to his arms. I had an opportunity of looking into the small black book on yonder table, the book which contains those hymns you Huguenots are so fond of singing at all times and in all places. I am too familiar with the Hervieu arms not to recognize the plate on the inside lid of the book, and the haunting face of the demoiselle whom I met at the fête was no longer that of a stranger. I understand why it seemed so familiar; in the flash of an eye I recollected the little scene which I have just recounted to you. That you were not better known to me is due to the fact that for some years past I have been in Paris to complete my studies.” Alaine listened gravely, making no comment. He waved his hand to a chair. “May we not sit, mademoiselle? I have more to say. I would not keep you standing.”

She bit her lip, but seated herself and regarded him silently.

“Étienne Villeneau is my friend; we were together at school in Rouen. Always Étienne spoke of his little cousin, his sweetheart, as he called her. Judge of my surprise and distress when, upon my return home some two years ago, I was told that this same pretty child whom I so well remembered had been stolen by her foster-mother and had disappeared, no one knew where. Étienne was in despair; he sent his emissaries to search high and low, but to no avail. When he knew I was to depart for these colonies he gave me as a parting charge, ‘My cousin, François, forget her not when you are in the land of the savage, and if chance be that you come across any who know of her, press home the discovery, so will you be my heart’s best friend.’ I find you here. I see you in this humble cot, performing with your own hands tasks that your servants at home should be doing for you, and, therefore, mademoiselle, not only in pity for my friend, but in sympathy for you, I beg of you to return to your native country.”

“Monsieur,” Alaine’s voice was low and determined, “you forget that I am a Huguenot.”

He snapped his fingers with an upward movement of them as he would say, “So slight a matter?” “That is easily adjusted, mademoiselle. Because you, as a child, were over-persuaded by your nurse is no reason why, as a woman, you should not revoke your opinions.”

“My father is also Protestant,” said Alaine, her dark eyes growing larger and more intense.

“Your father, M. Hervieu? And where is he?”

“I know not, but this I know: for his sake, if not for my own conviction, would I forswear the country which, if it has not witnessed his death, has condemned him to a life of misery. Dearly as I loved my own France, I am more Huguenot than French. Revoke my decision? Abjure my belief? Never! Day by day and hour by hour it becomes more and more dear to me in this free home. Listen, monsieur: to-morrow morning I start at break of day to walk over twenty miles to church. I shall do it gladly, joyfully, for it brings me to a service which is my delight. Would I do this if I could be turned by your chance words? My home is humble, yes, but here we are free to sing our psalms, to worship as we desire. I toil with my hands; I labor in the fields that I may help to pay for this piece of land which we call ours. I would work a thousand times harder for those who cherish me and who have given me their honest, honorable name that I may be safe from those who hunt me down and who seek to do me despite. Leave these, my dear adopted parents? Never, till my father himself returns to claim me.”

M. Dupont listened thoughtfully. “You would leave only at your father’s command? It behooves me, then, to find him.”

Alaine clasped her hands. “Oh, monsieur, find him, find him, and I will bless you forever, though you may be my enemy!”

“Your enemy?” He shrugged his shoulders; then looking at her with an inexplicable smile, he said, “Consider me yours to command, mademoiselle. We shall meet again, fair Alaine Hervieu, and I shall yet bid you good-morrow under the skies of France.” He lifted the heavy wooden latch of the door and bowed himself out, leaving Alaine stunned and bewildered.

In the dimness of the room Papa Louis did not perceive the expression on the girl’s face as he entered and gayly cried, “The wolves have not devoured my little bird, I see.”

Alaine flew toward him and clasped his arm. “Oh, papa, papa, there has been some one here!” And she poured forth her tale, one moment the passionate tears falling, and the next a tremor born of fear creeping into her voice.

Papa Louis listened silently until she had concluded, then he said, “But this young man, he is Protestant; he is a friend of Jacob Therolde’s. I have been speaking but now of him to Alexandre Allaire. He has talked to one and another, and no one seems to imagine evil of him. This is a puzzle, my daughter. I am dismayed by the strangeness of it. Ma petite, he did but tease you, perhaps; yes, that is it, he did not mean it when he urged your return to France; he would find out how steadfast you really are, that is all.”

“No, no, I am sure it was not that; yet——” She paused and considered the matter. “He did not say that he was not Protestant, he but spoke as if it were nothing to change one’s religion as favors come one’s way. If he is not Protestant, why is he here among us, so far from home? and what means his ardent friendship for my cousin? I am terrified by it all, papa.”

“But you need have no fear. Who shall take you from us? Not one man, nor two. So go to sleep, my little one; the good God will defend you. Say your prayers to Him and sleep well, for we have a long walk before us and must start betimes. I hope before long that it will be but a step to our own temple of worship. Mark how sweet is the air and how quiet the night. God be thanked for our peace. Embrace me, little one, and good-night.”

Alaine crept up the ladder to her room above. Why, after all, should she fear? There were papa and Gerard and all the good friends and neighbors to defend her. What could one man do? and why should he desire to harm her? And she went to sleep with a prayer upon her lips.

It required an early start, indeed, to reach New York in time for the service. Alaine put up a frugal lunch, and with others, who had not gone the evening before, they started forth, the men armed, for who knew what lurking foe might not come upon them in the lonely woods. Singing they went: those old songs of Marot’s and of Beza’s so dear to the Huguenot heart. To-day the talk was serious. Fierce and fiercer had grown the conflict between Romanists and Protestants. James II. of England had been compelled to abdicate; France had declared war against England; a Committee of Safety had intrusted Jacob Leisler with the command of the fort in New York, and to him the eyes of the people were turned. Would the French descend and threaten New York? Would the Indians join them and there be worse to be expected?

“Ah, la la,” sighed Alaine, as she stepped briskly along by the side of Papa Louis, “I see you are anxious to discuss the latest news with M. Sicard. Leave me to trudge along with the younger lads and go you, good papa, to those ahead.”

He looked at her with a smile. “So ready to be rid of papa? However, I do wish to discuss these matters, and I will send back to you some one who has been casting longing looks this way ever since we started. Approach, Pierre, and defend my daughter from any naughty enemy who may descend upon us,” he cried to one of the young men striding along in his clumping sabots and with gun in hand.

A smile lighted up the grave face of the youth. “Papa Louis is always a good companion,” he returned; “I fear mademoiselle will lose by the exchange.”

“Variety, my dear boy, variety; we need it. Pray, how would taste one’s pot à feu if but one ingredient composed it? A little of this, a little of that, and we have a dish fit for a king. So with life, my good Pierre; one needs a mixture. I leave you to help to a good flavor my daughter’s pottage to-day. Be not onion to make her weep, nor pepper to cause her anger.” And, laughing, Papa Louis gayly stepped ahead, and Pierre fell into a pace to match Alaine’s.

“You undertake a long walk,” Pierre said, after a moment’s silence.

“Yes, but you know our cow was hurt, and ’twas not safe to leave her last night, so I stayed behind to keep Papa Louis company, although Gerard begged to do so. But papa would not hear of Mère Michelle’s going alone, and thus it settled itself. I have long wanted to take this journey. I am young and strong, and why not? Mère Michelle, active as she is, could not well stand it, but I am sure I can.” She paused and looked at her tall companion, who, always grave, to-day seemed more so than usual. “I wanted to tell you, Pierre,” she began again, “that I do not trust that M. Dupont who was in our village yesterday, and also upon the day of the fête. He claims affiliation with us, but I believe he is a Papist.”

“Even so, there are some good Papists,” returned Pierre, quietly.

Alaine gave a little scream of protest. “You to say so, Pierre! You who began your life in the midst of horrors and who have suffered the loss of all nearest to you?”

He gave her one of his rare smiles. “Do you remember what the good Beza said in reply to the king of Navarre? ‘Sire, it belongs in truth to the Church of God, in whose name I speak, to endure blows and not inflict them. But it will also please your Majesty to remember that she is an anvil that has worn out many hammers.’”

Alaine nodded. “I remember the couplet which Papa Louis taught me,—

‘Plus a me frapper on s’amuse,

Tant plus de marteau on y use.’

But to tell you the truth, Pierre, I am not a patient being. I am full of indignation many times a day, and I wonder if I will ever be called a patient Huguenot. That anvil, it is because of Beza’s words that we have it for an emblem, is it not so? I like better the marigold myself.”

“And I like the anvil,” returned Pierre.

Alaine gave him a half-saucy look from under her long lashes. “Yes, you are more like an anvil,” she told him.

“Quite hard you mean?”

“I did not say so. Perhaps I meant very useful.”

“And you are more like the marigold.”

“Quite useless?”

“I did not say so. Perhaps I meant because of a heart of gold.”

“Merci, monsieur. I like that better than if you had said as truly lovely.”

“I meant that, too.”

“It strikes me,” said Alaine, slyly, “that one should not put honey in pot à feu.”

“Let us have, then—what shall we say?”

“A smack of gossip which we will call herbs for smart flavor; I will repeat that I do not trust M. Dupont, and you can contradict me if you will. I tell you this because I do not want to say so to Gerard, who is too fiery, nor to Papa Louis, who would call me an alarmist, nor to Mère Michelle, who would be seized with affright. But remember, if anything happens, that I said this. Ah, here we come to the rock where we rest. I see the clump of cedars quite plainly. You shall have a taste of Mère Michelle’s good bread for your pretty compliments.”

They were not long in reaching the spot which invariably served as the resting-place for the church-goers, and from there they travelled on to Collect Pond, where the dusty feet were bathed, the shoes and stockings put on, and the journey considered as nearly over. The neighborhood of the French church in Marketfield Street was alive with the crowds of those who had come from Long Island, Staten Island, and New Rochelle. Many had passed the night in the “cars,” and had eaten their breakfast in these same wagons, to be ready for the long service before the last stragglers should have arrived.

“And are you so very fatigued, my pigeon?” asked Papa Louis, as Alaine, a little pale, but still keeping up her energetic walk, approached the church.

“I am a little tired,” she returned, “but I am here, and I shall have time to rest. Ah-h!” she gave a little start. “See there, papa, M. Dupont is talking to M. Allaire. I trust he will not see us.”

To Alaine’s relief M. Dupont did not discover her. She kept a sharp eye out during the period of intermission, when a cheerful chatter was kept up by those who visited around from group to group. It was a great event, this communion service on special Sundays, and meant not only the enjoyment of free worship, but a gathering of friends and an exchange of visits; a day’s pleasuring, in fact, for they enjoyed it all, from the hearty singing of the psalms and the long sermon to the arrival home after the toilsome journey.