At the beginning of the war, he said, the island had been a nest of

regular pirates, who had taken pains to make it, from a mere muddy

head of a reef with some cocoas upon it, probably into a resort on

occasions--especially as even the wild Maldive natives to southward

had somehow a dislike to it. The whole gang being taken by some

cruiser or other at sea, however, too far off to leave any clue to

their harbourage hereabouts, they were all hanged, and the place lost

sight of; till a good many years after, a country Arab craft, bound

for Dacca up the Ganges, was driven in a gale upon the reefs some way

off, without seeing the island at all till the sea went down, and

she was going to pieces. There were only two Europeans aboard, both

having turned Mussulmen, and the youngest of them was mate. There was

a passenger, a native Indian merchant, and his servants, with, as was

believed, his harem below in the after cabins, for nobody ever had

seen them; but the Arab _rais_ of the vessel, and several more, being

washed off when she struck, the other Mussulmen took to the only boat

they had, and got ashore, laving the two Englishmen with the passenger.

Next day the two men had contrived a raft of the spars, whereupon the

Hindoo at last brought up his three women, veiled from head to foot,

and the whole got safe to the island. Here all the Mahometans herded

together amongst themselves, forcing the two Englishmen to keep on the

other side of the island, as they had no firearms; while the old Hindoo

merchant and his native servant got a tent pitched on the highest point

for the women, where they were no more seen than before, and a flag

hoisted on a stick all the time for a signal to ships--poor simple

devil! as Jones said with a laugh. Every day he offered the Arab crew

more of the gold and jewels he had with him, to make for India and

get him brought off; till at last some of the Arabs came round to the

mate and his companion, wanting them to take the boat and go instead,

otherwise they would kill both of them at once. The two men accordingly

had provisions given them, and hoisted sail on the boat before the

breeze to eastward: they had almost dropped the island, when all at

once the one in the boat's bows stepped aft to him that had the tiller,

and said it struck him the Arabs couldn't mean well to the Hindoo and

his wives, in trying to get clear of others. All his companion did,

Jones said, was to ask if he was man enough to go back, face them

boldly, and offer to take the passenger and his harem too, when some

craft or other might come back for the Arabs, since they weren't seamen

enough to venture first in the boat. "I tell you what," said the first,

"try the two largest breakers of water there!" The water for use next

after the open one was tasted--and it was _salt_. "Will you stand by

me?" the second man said, after a while. The other had a dog with him

of his own, that had swam ashore from the vessel after the raft he

landed upon, and it was sleeping in the boat's bow at the moment, near

him; the dog lifted its head as they spoke, eyed the two, and lay down

again with a low sort of growl. "Ay," answered the other, "to the last

I will--as long as you stick by _me_!" They hauled over the sheet, laid

the boat sharp on a wind, and as soon as it was dusk began to pull back

toward the island, where they got ashore in the dark before morning.

Here Jones stopped, turned suddenly round to the glare of the white

water plashing upon the beach, and said no more. "Why, Jones," said

I, "is that all you've to tell?--what came of them? For God's sake,

yes--what was the upshot?" "'Tis enough to show how one bad thing

breeds another, as I said, sir," answered he. "Probably in the end,

though--at any rate I only fancy the rest--'tis a horrible dream to

me, for a--a--squall came on when that shipmate of mine got so far,

and we had to reef topsails. He went overboard off the yard that very

night," said Jones wildly. "The man must have been _there_," said I

in a pointed way, "to give all the particulars--_he_ was the mate,

himself, Mr Jones!" He made no answer, but kept gazing out to sea. "And

how long was this ago?" I asked. "Oh," answered he, "years enough ago,

no doubt, sir, for both of us to be children, if _you_ were born, Mr

Collins"--and he turned his face to me as ghastly as the water toward

the horizon he was looking at before,--"at least I hope to God it was

so--the man was a poor creature, sir, bless you, and d----d old, as

it seems to me--twice my own age at the time, Lieutenant Collins! At

all events, though," he went on, rambling in a strange way that made

me think he was going out of his mind, "he remembered well enough the

first time he saw the white water coming down upon the island. He was

hunting--_hunting_--through the bushes and up and down, and came up

upon the crag." "Hunting?" I said. "Yes, you didn't know how it lived,

or where it kept, but every night it was on the look-out there. There

was no one else, save the girl sleeping over beyond in the hut; and the

man almost fancied the water of the sea was coming down to the rocks

and the beach, like the Almighty himself, to show he was clear of all

that had happened--if he could but have finished that brute, testifying

like the very devil, he'd have been happy, he felt! Harkye," said he,

sinking his voice to a whisper, "when he went back at daylight, the

woman was dying--she had born a--what was as innocent as she was, poor,

sweet, young heathen!" And if I hadn't guessed pretty well before

that Jones was the man he'd been speaking of, his glittering eye, and

his stride from the beach would have showed it; apparently he forgot

everything besides at that moment, till you'd have thought his mind

gloated on this piece of his history. "The woman!" I couldn't help

saying, "what woman? Had the rest left you in the boat, then?"

Jones looked upon me fiercely, then turned away; when all on a sudden

such a long unearthly quaver of a cry came down through the stillness,

from somewhere aloft in the island, that at first I didn't know what

to think, unless one of our look-out men had met with an accident, and

tumbled down. 'Twas so dark where they were, however, there was no

seeing them. Without looking for himself, Jones faced me, shivering all

over. "What is that, Mr Collins?" whispered he, catching my arm with a

clutch like death, "_is_ there anything yonder--behind--behind--sir?"

On the flat head of the crag north-westward, black against the pale

glimmer over the very spot where we had stood half-an-hour before, to

my utter horror, there was some creature or other sitting as if it

looked toward the sea; and just then another wild, quivering, eddying

sound came evidently enough from it, like a thing that would never

end. It wasn't a human voice that!--my very brain spun with it, as I

glanced to Jones. "Good heavens!" I said, "_what_? But by Jove! now I

think of it; yes--'tis the howl of a _dog_--nothing else!" "Eight--ten

years!" said Jones, hoarsely, "without food, too, and enough in that

well to have poisoned whole gangs of men for twenty years--_can_ it

be an earthly being, sir?" The stare he gave me at the moment was

more frightful than aught else, but I mentioned what Westwood and I

had observed the day before. Before I well knew what he meant, Jones

was stealing swiftly up the rising ground to the shoulder of it. I

saw him get suddenly on a level with the creature, his musket aiming

for it--there was a flash and a shot that left the height as bare as

before--and next minute, with a short whimpering howl, the animal flew

down the hill, while I heard Jones crashing through the bushes after

it, till he was lost in the dark. Such a terrible notion it gave me of

his strange story being true, whereas before I had almost fancied it

partly a craze of his, from having lived here alone--that for a moment

or two it seemed to my mind we were still in the midst of it. I hurried

back to our post, and close upon morning Jones came over and lay down

by himself without a word, haggard and covered with sweat.

All next day the horizon on every side was clear of a single speck; no

signs either of ship or schooner, till I began to wish we were out of

it, hoping the Seringapatam had, after all, kept the old course for

Bombay, in spite of us. I found Jones had warned the men not to get

our water out of the tank; it being poisoned in a way fit to last for

years, as the pirates knew how to do. For our parts, we had to amuse

ourselves the best way we could, waiting for the schooner to come down

again for us, which was the only thing I looked for now. That night the

white appearance of the water to north and windward seemed a good deal

gone, save where it hung like a haze in the direction it took off the

island: the stars shone out, and in two or three nights more I found

from Jones there would be nothing of it, which I hoped I should have to

take on his word.

At daybreak, however, our look-out could all of a sudden be seen

hoisting the signal for a sail in sight, and waving his hat for us

to come. No sooner had we hurried up, accordingly, than a sail could

be made out in the south-east, hull down; and the schooner not being

likely thereaway, a certain flutter in me at once set it down for the

Indiaman at last, on her way far past the island for the open channel.

Being broad daylight, too, with a fresh breeze blowing, we saw that

Foster and his party, if they carried out their scheme, would have

to wait till she was a long way to windward at night-time, in order

to get clear off. In fact, I had every one kept down off the height,

lest the ship's glasses might possibly notice something; while, at the

same time, we hadn't even a fire kindled to cook our victuals. I was

watching her over the brow of the hill, through the telescope, when

she evidently stood round on the other tack to get up to windward,

which brought her gradually nearer. She was a large ship, under full

canvass; and at last she rose her hull to the white streak below the

bulwarks, till I began to think they intended passing the island to

eastward to make the channel. I went down for Jones, and asked him how

far the reefs actually ran out, when he told me there would probably be

signs enough of them in such a strong, breeze; besides, as he reminded

me, if she was the Indiaman, it was the captain himself that had a

chart of them; in which, from the particular nature of it--being an

old buccaneering chart, as he thought--they would be laid down quite

plainly. Indeed, when we both returned to the height, there were lines

of surf to be noticed here and there, more than three miles out; and

seeing her by that time so distinctly, a new uneasiness began to enter

my head. There were no signals we could make, even if they didn't serve

the other way; and, to tell the truth, I didn't much like the idea of

being found there. Still, it was terrible to see her getting nearer

and nearer, without the power of doing the least thing to warn her

off; spreading and heightening before you, till you counted her sails,

and saw the light betwixt them, with the breeze always strengthening

off that side the island, and of course making it the safer for her to

pass it to leeward. The blue surges rose longer to the foam at their

crests, till one's eye got confused between them and the spots of surf

rippling greenish over the tongues of reef; in fact, it wasn't far off

being low-water at the time, and the whole was to be seen better from

the height than elsewhere, stretched out like a floor that the breeze

was sweeping across, raising a white dust where the blue melted into

the light-brown tint of the sea to leeward. The breeze came so fresh

that she even hauled down her sky-sails and fore-royal, falling off to

go to leeward of the island. At the same moment, I made out with the

glass that she was actually the Seringapatam, and also, that she'd got

a leadsman at work in the chains. Five minutes more, and she'd have

gone time enough into the distinct brown-coloured swells, to stand past

the deep end: without help from the glass, I saw the sun sparkle in

the spray from her black bows; she made a sliding forge ahead with her

whole beam on to us; when, next moment, as if she had taken a sudden

yaw and broached to in the wind, she came fairly end-on, showing the

three piles of canvass in one. A wild boding of the truth crept on me

as I sprang on the peak, waving my arms, and stamping like a lunatic,

as if they could hear me. The next instant she had fallen a little

over, her foretop-mast and main-to'gallant-mast gone out of their

places at the shock, and the heavy blue swells running to her highest

side in a perfect heap of foam; while the spray rose in white jets

across her weather bulwarks at every burst of them. The Indiaman had

struck on a rib of reef, or else a spit of sand, near the very edge of

the whole bank: had it been only high water--as I had reason to believe

afterwards--she'd have gone clear over it. As soon as the first horror

of the thing was a little past, I looked, without a word, to Jones,

and he to me. "The fellows have come at last, certainly!" said he, in

a serious enough tone. "Mr Collins," he added, "the moment I set foot

on ground here, I felt sure something would come of it!"--"Get the men

down at once, sir," I said, "and let's pull out to the ship!"--"Why,

sir," answered he, "the breeze is likely to keep for some time as it

is, and if she's completely gone, they'll be able to bring all hands

safe ashore. If you take my advice, Mr Collins, you'll hold all fast,

and show no signs of our being here at all, in case of having something

or other to manage yet that may cost us harder!" It didn't need much

thought to see this, in fact; and in place of going down, ten minutes

after we were all close amongst the bushes on the slope, watching

the wreck. What was at the bottom of all this I didn't know; whether

Captain Finch had really got wind of Foster's scheme, and been playing

with some hellish notion his heart failed him to carry out, or how it

was; but what he was to make of _this_ was the question.

Well, toward afternoon, the wreck seemed pretty much in the same

state, though by that time they had evidently given her up, for the

boats were beginning to be hoisted out to leeward. We couldn't see

what went on there, till one of them suddenly appeared, pulling out

for the island, about three miles off; then the large launch after

it. There were ladies' dresses to be made out in both, their cloaks

and shawls fluttering bright to the breeze as the boats dipped in the

short swells; and they were full an hour ere they got out of our

sight, near the broad beach, on the level side, where the tide was

ebbing fast again, making it a hard matter to pull the distance. Two

more boats came off the ship, filled full of casks and other matters,

save the crews; the rest of the passengers and men no doubt waiting for

the launch and jolly-boat to go back and take them ashore--for, soon

after, they both could be seen rounding the point on their way out. On

coming within hail of the fresh boats, however, they apparently gave

in, since we could see the two of them, to our great surprise, strike

round, and make for the beach again with their shipmates, spite of

signals from the wreck, and shots even fired after them. The breeze by

that time flagged, leaving less of a sea against the ship's hull in

the dead-water from the other reefs, and she had fallen over again to

leeward--a proof of her sticking fast where she struck, without much

fear of parting very soon in such weather; but the sun was going down,

and this being the first sign of foul play we had observed, 'twas plain

at all events we should have to look sharp about us. We kept close up

the height, bolted our cold junk and biscuit, washing down with a stiff

caulker, and looked every man to his tools. To my great satisfaction,

the Planter, who had watched everything seemingly in pure bewilderment,

woke up out of it when he knew how matters stood, and handled his

double-barrel as cool as a cucumber, putting in two bullets above the

small shot he had got for the birds, and ramming down with the air of

a man summing up a couple of bills against a rascally debtor. For my

own part, I must say I was longer of coming to feel it wasn't some

sort of a dream, owing to Jones' broken story; till the thought of

_who_ was to all likelihood on the very island below, with the rest of

the ladies, amongst a set of all sorts of foremast-men thrown loose

from command--half of them, probably, ruffians, with some hand in the

matter--it came on me like fire at one's vitals. Meantime we sat there

patiently enough for want of knowing what was to do first, or which way

we had best keep to avoid bringing matters to a head, worse than they

yet were.

The night came out of the dusk a fine starlight to seaward beyond the

reefs where the Indiaman lay, the high side of the island glooming back

against the deep blue glistening sky, till you didn't see how large it

might be; while the white water hung glimmering off to leeward from

the rocks. The ship's crew had kindled a fire on the long strand near

the boats, and we heard their noise getting louder and louder above

the sound of the sea plashing upon it--evidently through their making

free with liquor. Jones being no doubt well acquainted with every part

of the ground, he proposed to go over and see how things stood, and

where the passengers might be: at the same time, as Mr Rollock was more

likely to come conveniently to speech of them, both for explaining our

being here and putting them on their guard, he agreed to go too.

One or other of them was to hurry back as quickly as possible, while

the men and myself waited in readiness for whatever might turn up.

Hour after hour passed, however, till I was quite out of patience,

not to say uneasy beyond description. All was still, save below

toward the water's edge--the seamen's voices at times mixing with

the washing hum of the surge on the sand, then rising over it in the

chorus of a forecastle song, or a sudden bit of a quarrelsome uproar;

notwithstanding which they began apparently to settle down to sleep. At

last the Planter came skirting round the hill through the trees, quite

out of breath, to say they had discovered the spot where the ladies had

no doubt been taken by their friends, as Captain Finch himself, with

one of the ship's officers, and two or three cadets, were walking about

on the watch, all of them armed. To judge by this, and the fact of the

other gentlemen being still apparently on the wreck, Finch mistrusted

his men. However, the Planter thought it better not to risk a hasty

shot through him by going nearer; and, to tell the truth, I thought it

better myself to wait till daylight, when we should see if the rest got

ashore; or possibly, as I wished to heaven were the case, the schooner

might heave in sight. "Where is Mr Jones, though?" asked I: on which

I found he had gone over for the first time toward the well for some

water, as he told Mr Rollock. Indeed, the passengers were settled near

the thick of the wood on this side of the watering-place, none of the

Indiaman's people seeming to know as yet there was such a thing on the

island.

We each of us held our breath, and listened to hear Jones come back. I

was just on the point of leading my party that way, when I caught the

sound of some one panting, as it were, up the ridge from the shore, and

next moment saw, to my great surprise, it was the creature Jones had

such a horror of--the dog that had run wild on the island, snuffing

with his nose to the ground as if he were in chase of something; while

the straw hats and tarpaulins of half-a-dozen fellows with ship's

muskets and cutlasses followed him over the hill, not thirty paces

above us. I signed to Jacobs to keep quiet, as they halted together,

looking at the dog; and, from what I could catch of their words, they

had noticed it ever since sundown, sitting at the foot of the hill

watching what went on, till the animal ran toward them as if they were

friends, every now and then turning and making for the heights with a

bark and a whimper, as it did at present. One of the men was Foster.

"I tell ye what it is," said he, "there's some fellow on the island

already, 'mates. If we ketch him, why, we'll have it out of him--then

down with it quietly to the shore, and go off in the long-boat,

seeing as how this blasted fool of a skipper of ours has spoiled our

pleasure!" The dog turned again, wagged his tail, and put his nose to

the ground. I thought at first he'd bring them right upon us, when

suddenly he broke off with a yelp exactly into the track Jones had

taken with Mr Rollock on leaving us. The sailors kept away in his wake,

down through the bushes into the thick dusk of the trees; upon which

the Planter and I started to our feet at once, and held cautiously

after them, the five man-o'-warsmen following at our heels, Indian file.

Jones, however, had either heard the dog, or got an inkling of the

thing, and he had taken a long round so as to join us from behind: the

Indiaman's men keeping on for a quarter of an hour or so, when they

brought up again, seemingly doubtful whether to follow the creature

or not; and we dropped like one man into the shadow, till they made

sail once more. Soon after the Planter pointed to the trees where the

passengers were, and, on a sign from me, the whole of us edged down

to the spot, till we were standing within sight of the half-finished

fire, where the Judge's kitmagar was sitting asleep, tailor-fashion,

with his flat turban sunk to his breast. One of the cadets stood down

the slope a little, betwixt that and the beach where the crew were,

leaning sleepily on his gun, and nodding; while in the midst was a

sort of shed, run up with branches and cocoa-nut leaves, where you

could see a glimpse of the different ladies' dresses, young and old,

asleep on the ground. The starlight fell right down into the opening,

and showed the glistening edges of the leaves, with the sea broad

out beyond the cocoas at the foot of the rising ground; so bidding

Jones look out sharp, I stepped carefully through. My eye lighted at

once on Sir Charles Hyde lying in one nook of the shelter, wrapped

up in his pilot-coat--the first time in the old gentleman's life for

a good while, I daresay, that he had passed his night on the ground,

especially with such a lot of berths taken up beside him. Still he was

sound enough at the time, to judge by his breathing, trifle as it was

to the Planter's; and close by him was his daughter, with her cloak

drawn half over her head in the shadow--her hair confused about her

cheek as it pressed white into the bundle of red bunting she had for

a pillow, and one hand keeping the cloak fast at the neck, as if she

dreamt of a stiff breeze. The sight went to my heart, and so did the

notion of waking her; but I heard sounds below on the beach, as if

the rest of the crew missed their shipmates, probably getting jealous

after their booze, and not unlikely to seek them up the island; so

the more it struck me there was no time to be lost in coming to an

understanding. According, I stooped down quietly and touched her on the

shoulder. Violet Hyde opened her eyes at once, and looked at me; but

whether it was the starlight showing my uniform, or her fancying it was

still the Indiaman in the Atlantic, in place of crying out, why, there

was almost a smile on her lips as she saw me from the ground. Next

moment, however, she drew her hand across her eyelids, sat up with the

help of the other arm, and gazed on me in a bewildered way, naming me

at the same time below her breath. "Yes, Miss Hyde!" I said hastily;

and a few words served to give her a notion of the case, as well as to

advise her to wake up the Judge, with the rest of the ladies, and be

ready to move the moment we came back. My first thought was to take

Foster's own plan, and secure the long-boat, if we could only get

betwixt the Indiaman's crew and the water; or even try our own, on

the opposite side of the island, and carry off the other boats to the

wreck; after which we might keep off till the schooner appeared, as she

couldn't be long of doing in this weather.

I had just stolen back to the men and Mr Rollock, when all at once

there was a wild cry, not twenty yards off, among the brushwood. A

heavy blow and a struggle, in the midst of which three shots, one

after the other, were heard from the cadets; next minute, with oaths

and curses to the mast-head, and a crash through amongst the branches

in the dark, Foster and his shipmates came making for the opening.

Something horrible flashed through my mind as I fancied I had caught

Finch's voice, whether one way or the other I couldn't say, for I had

no thought at the time excepting for Violet. Shriek upon shriek broke

from the ladies ere I well knew I had big Harry himself by the hairy

throat of him, as he was aiming a left-handed stroke of his cutlass at

the Judge, who had sprung betwixt him and his daughter. The strength

of that ruffian was wonderful, for he flung me off and levelled Sir

Charles Hyde at the same moment, the Judge's body tripping me. Jones

and my own men, as well as the Planter, were hard at work with the

other five desperate villains; while the cadets and the second officer

of the Seringapatam rushed in from the trees--all of it passing in half

a minute. As I started to my feet, Foster had lifted Violet Hyde in his

arms, and was dashing through the darkest of the wood with her toward

the hollow; when, just as I was hard upon him, doubly to my horror,

above all the screams of the ladies I could hear the wild drunken

shouts of the crew below coming up from the beach like so many devils.

Foster had got as far as the next opening where the rubbish of the hut

was, and, no doubt catching the sound as well as myself, all at once

he dropped the young lady on the grass--in a faint as she was, and

her white dress stained with blood, as I thought from _herself_. "Now

ye----" shouted he, turning bolt round till her moveless figure lay

betwixt us, with a flourish of his cutlass, which I fancied was bloody

too--"who are _you_? You'll have a dozen on ye directly, but what's

meat for the skipper's meat for the passenger, so--" "Devil!" said I

through my teeth, as I edged round; and Foster was in the very act of

rushing at me, whether he trod on her or not, when my voice or dress

seemed to strike him in the dusk. "How the bloody comfort did _you_--"

said he, shrinking back for a moment; "so much the better, by G--!"

and he sprang forward again right upon me, with a swinging boarder's

blow at my head, which flashed off my blade with a force enough to have

shivered it, had it not been a first-rate old cut-and-thrust I had

tried pretty stiffly before. If I hadn't been in such a fury of rage,

and a hurry at once, 'twould have been Harry's last hit; but, at the

third he made, I caught him fair under it, the point going through and

through his body as I thrust him back stride by stride--his cutlass

waving fiercely all the time in the air clear of my head, for the

stroke came under his arm. The moment he fell, though I knew nothing

before that of where we were, there was a heavy plunge; I had nearly

followed on top of him, as he went head-foremost down the tank-well

under the trees; but next moment, without a thought more to him in the

heat of the struggle, I was lifting Violet off the grass. What I did

or what I said, to see if she would revive, I don't really know; but

I remember, as well as if it were last night, the very sound of her

voice as she told me she wasn't hurt. The affair in the wood below

us had suddenly ceased during these five or ten minutes--indeed, as I

found afterwards, Jones and my party had settled every one of the five,

either altogether or for the time; but the uproar of more than twenty

fierce voices could be heard beyond them, cursing and yelling as they

came stumbling and crashing up amongst the brushwood in a body; while

the ladies and their companions struggled up from all sides toward the

height, wild with terror. I met Sir Charles Hyde hurrying to seek his

daughter, however; and the moment he had her in his arms, I rushed

down, pistol in hand, to join my men, who were standing firm below, as

the mutineers burst into the opening, no doubt with the notion they

had only the cadets to do with. "Here, my lads!" I sang out; "make

every man of them prisoner--down with 'em to the schooner!" And as I

broke suddenly through in the starlight in the midst of them, Jones,

Jacobs, the Planter, and the other four man-o'-warsmen sprang after me,

one by one--taking the cue, and shouting as if to ever so many behind

us, "Here they are, shipmates--this way--settle the blackguards!" In

fact, the moment I appeared, the gang of half-drunk fellows were taken

aback. One of them roared as if he saw the very devil; and giving them

no time to think, we drove them scattering down toward the beach. One

of Foster's party, however, being only stunned, had contrived to get

down amongst them; and in a little while, seeing we didn't follow, the

whole lot of them appeared to get an inkling of the truth, on which

they rallied. It wasn't long ere I saw they had got desperate, and were

planning to divide, and come somewhere over upon us round the heights;

so that, in the dark, with our small party, not knowing their numbers,

the best we could do was to gather up toward the peak, and secure the

ladies. Accordingly, we passed an uncomfortable enough time during the

rest of the night, till daybreak, when still no signs of the schooner,

as we saw in the clear to north-eastward. Frightful notions came into

my head of something having happened to her; the mutineers below were

on both sides of the island, and they held the watering-place; we

hadn't provisions for a single breakfast to half the party of us--and,

the fellows being now fairly in for it, they could starve us out if

they chose. You may conceive, accordingly, what a joyful sight met my

eyes, when, on the dusk lifting off to northward, we could see the

lovely craft under all sail not six miles off, bearing down before a

fresh breeze for the deep end of the island! The wind had headed her

off on her way back; and, knowing nothing of the wreck, Westwood might

have landed at the mercy of the villains in the bush. But the minute

we saw his boat out, the whole of us, save the Judge and the Planter,

made a clean charge down upon them--the schooner's men joining us with

the oars and boat-stretchers; and in another half-hour the whole gang,

having lost heart, were taken and lashed fast by the wrists on the

beach, to a single man.

On searching the watering-place during the day, we found some one had

covered the mouth of the tank with sticks and leaves, through which

Harry Foster had gone when he fell. The stuff had fallen in over him;

and the well being evidently made deep into the rock, to hold water

the longer, with the roots of the trees growing out into it, his body

never came up. Somehow or other no one liked to sound it to the bottom;

but the thing that horrified all of us the most, was to find Captain

Finch himself lying quite dead amongst the brushwood near where the

passengers had pitched their quarters, with a cut through his skull

enough to have killed an ox. It was supposed Foster had suddenly come

upon him, as he and his shipmates looked out for the hoard they thought

the pirates had in the island, while Finch was on guard over the

ladies. Whether the fellow took a new notion at the moment, or what it

was, the whole gang of them made their rush upon the second mate and

the cadets, the minute after the captain met his death.

As for Jones, he told me he had noticed the dog watching the seamen

below, and the idea got into his head of what might happen. There was

that about the animal to give one a dread you couldn't describe. How

it had lived all this time, and how the custom came back on it after

growing perfectly wild, of carrying on like what it did that night,

was a mystery; but Jones said he hadn't heard it bark before, neither

had the man he knew of, since the time he was first left _alone_ on

White-water Island. In fact, the whole of us might have hunted it down

before we left. But "No!" Jones said. "There's a perfect fiend in the

brute, I do believe--yet it strikes me by this time, the creature

belongs to--to the Almighty, sir!" The men and passengers had been

taken off the Indiaman's wreck, which there was no chance of getting

off the reef; so, taking out the best of her stores and the passengers'

property, we had every soul aboard the schooner, and at last set sail

to the south-east, meaning to go in at Madras, where a sloop might be

sent to recover more from the ship. 'Twas with no ordinary state of

things, from stem to stern, that we dropped White-water Island astern.

Well, ma'am, the rest you may easily fancy. We made Madras Roads, and

there I expected to lose sight of the Judge and his daughter again,

as we did of most of the other passengers; but to my perfect delight,

Sir Charles preferred carrying out the voyage on to Calcutta in the

schooner, where they had the after-cabins to themselves. The Indiaman's

crew I kept, prisoners and all, till we should meet the frigate off the

Sunderbunds.

Just conceive standing up the hot Bay of Bengal with flagging

south-westerly breezes, shifting at times to a brisk south-easter,

or a squall, as we've done ourselves this week. The moon wasn't at

the full then, of course, so we only had it like a reaper's sickle

in the dog-watches; but it was fine weather, and you may imagine one

sometimes contrived, betwixt Westwood and myself, to have Violet on the

quarterdeck of an evening without the Judge. Tom would step forward

suddenly to see a small pull taken on a sheet, and Snelling knew pretty

well not to walk aft of the capstan; so I could lean over the taffrail

near her, and look at the schooner's wake glimmering and sparkling up

in the bubbles astern.

Then to save trouble, you need but picture to yourselves some such sort

of a daybreak as we had this morning; a cool blue cloudless sky all

aloft, dappled to eastward with a mighty arch, as it were, of small

white spots and flakes, as a perfect sea of light flows up into it

before the sun under the horizon, and a pale slanting shaft of it seems

to hang gray in the yellow above him.[26] The sea heaves deep-blue and

deeper-blue under the schooner; the wide flock of small clouds burn

from gold to fire; the slanting streak of light fades and vanishes, and

the sun comes up like a gush of flame--sending a stream of glittering

radiance along the water to our starboard bow, while it shows a long

flat line of land far on the other beam. The Planter is smoking his

first cheroot for that day at the stern gratings, when we make out

three or four faint points over the streak of land, shining like gold

in the dawn; while at the same time three hazy pillars, as it were, are

seen standing up betwixt sea and sky, beyond the rippling blue in the

north-eastern board. 'Tis the spires of Juggernaut pagoda on one side;

and as the brisk morning breeze drives the water into short surges,

till the schooner rises the ship upon the other, all of a sudden she

looms square and white upon our starboard bow. As the hull lifted

higher and higher under her canvass, there was less doubt every few

minutes of her being a frigate; and by the time Violet and her father

were standing together on the quarterdeck, the glorious old Hebe was

signalling us from her fore-royal-masthead, as she kept close on a wind

to cross our course.

We spoke the pilot-brig that evening, took out the pilot, and

stood up into the mouth of the Hoogly with the night-tide in the

moonlight--dropping the Hebe at Diamond Harbour next day; while

Lord Frederick, and a Government gentleman he had with him from St

Helena, went up to Calcutta with us in the schooner. The whole of

the Indiaman's late crew and officers were left in the frigate till

further notice, notwithstanding which we were pretty well crowded on

our way up: Westwood and I were glad of a couple of hammocks in the

half deck; and, in fact, I saw little more of Violet Hyde till they

went ashore opposite Fort-William.

In half-an-hour we were lying at anchor in the midst of the crowd of

Indiamen, country ships, Arab craft, and all sorts of craft besides,

stretching far up to the next reach; the long front of flat-topped

buildings, with their green venetians and balustrades, shining white

over the row of trees on the right bank, like a string of palaces

spreading back through the huge mass of the city to the pale hot

eastern sky--a tall cocoa-nut tree or a sharp spire breaking it here

and there; while the pile of Government House was to be seen dotted

with adjutant-birds; and the opposite shore showed far off in a line

of green jungle, faced by a few gay-looking spots of bungalows. All

the rest of the day Jones busied himself seeing all made regular and

ship-shape below and aloft, in complete seaman-like style, till I began

to think he had taken a fancy to the schooner, and meant to go with

her and the frigate to the China seas. Next morning, however, as soon

as breakfast was over in the cabin, he came to me and said that, as

there was nothing more to be done at present aboard, according to our

agreement he would bid us good-bye. Nothing I could say was of the

least use, so at last I had to give it up. Having little money about

me, however, except in bills, and intending to go ashore myself, I told

him I should pay him his mate's wages at once at a banker's in the

town. By the time I came on deck, Jones had hailed a dingy, and the

native boatman paddled us to the ghaut below the Sailor's Home together.

I had shaken hands with him, and stood watching him from the bank

verandah, as his manly figure, in the blue jacket, white duck trousers,

and straw hat, passed away down Flag Street, stepping like a seaman

fresh from blue water through a stream of Hindoos in white muslin,

Mussulman servants, tall-capped Armenians, Danes, Frenchmen, Chinamen,

Arabs, and Parsees. Three or four Coolies with painted umbrellas were

shouting and scrambling in his way, mentioning their names, salaaming,

and sah'bing him to the nines; a couple of naked black boys were

trying to brush his shoes in the dust; a tray of native sweetmeats

seemed to be shoved every now and then under his nose; and two or

three children with heads as big as pumpkins were stuck before him,

their mothers begging for "buckshish! buckshish!" Jones held on like a

man accustomed to every sort of foreign scenes in the world; and out

of curiosity to see where he would go, I followed him for a little

toward the thick of the noise and crowd, through Tank Square, where

the water-carriers were sprinkling the ground from the sheep-skins on

their backs as they walked, serpent-charmers and jugglers exhibiting,

and a dirty Fakir rolling at the corner in seeming agony, with a crowd

of liberty-men in Sunday toggery all round him. Jones looked up at the

church steeping in the white heat, and across the glare of light to

the city beyond, standing like a man that didn't know what to do, or

hadn't seen Calcutta before; then passed carelessly by the half-slued

sailors, who hailed him as if he were a ship. At length he got to

the turn of a street running into the native town, where you caught

a glimpse of it swarming this way and that with turbans in the close

overhanging bazaars. Some Hindoo procession or other was coming along

with tom-toms, gongs, tambourines, and punkahs, sweeping on through a

Babel of heathenish cries and songs; a knot of dancing-girls, with red

flowers in their sleek black hair, could be seen in a hackery drawn

by two hump-backed bullocks; and a white Brahmin bull was poking its

head amongst the heaps of fruit at a stall; whilst you heard a whole

ship's crew hurrahing and laughing amongst the confusion, as they drove

along. Suddenly I saw Jones hail a palanquin near him, and get in. The

four mud-coloured bearers took the pole of it on their shoulders, fore

and aft--greasy-looking fellows, with ochre-marks on their noses and

foreheads, a tuft of hair tied back on their heads like women, and as

naked as they were born, save the cloth round their middle,--and next

moment away they trotted, grunting and swinging the palanquin, till I

lost sight of them in the hubbub. 'Twas the last I saw of Jones.

* * * * *

Here the Captain stopped; the Gloucester's crew were getting the

anchors off her forecastle to her bows for next day, when the

light-ship off the Sandheads was expected to be seen; and, from his

manner and his silence together, he evidently considered the yarn at

an end. "That's all then?" carelessly asked the surgeon, who was a

chess-player, and had heard only this part of the Captain's adventures,

and the first two, so that he appeared to perceive a slight want of

connection. "All?" was the unanimous voice of the lady-passengers, most

of whom had been faithful listeners,--the younger ones were obviously

disappointed at something. "Why, yes," said Captain Collins, with a

look which might be interpreted either as modest or "close,"--"the fact

is, I fancied the affair might serve to while away a single evening

or so, and here have I been yarning different nights all this time!

'Tis owing to my want of practice, no doubt, ma'am." "Come, come,"

said the matron of the party, "you must really give us some idea of a

denouement. These girls of mine won't be satisfied without it, Captain

Collins; they will think it no story at all, otherwise!"

"An end to it, you mean?" answered he. "Why, ma'am, if there were

an _end_ to it, it couldn't be a 'short' yarn at all--that would be

to finish and 'whip' it, as we say, before it's long enough for the

purpose; whereas, luckily, my life hasn't got to a close yet."

"Oh!" said the lady, no sea casuistry for _us_; besides, _I_ am aware

of the sequel, you know!" "Why, ma'am," answered the Captain, looking

up innocently, "it wasn't for two years and a half afterwards that

I--I settled, you know! Do you mean me to tell you all that happened

in that time, about the Frenchman, and what befell the schooner in the

China seas? 'twould last the voyage home; but if you'll go _back_ with

me I've no particular objection, now I've got into the way" "No no,

my dear, Captain," said the lady, "we have had enough for the present

of your nautical details--I beg pardon--but tell us how you succeeded

in--" "Well," interrupted the narrator rather hastily, "'twas somewhat

thus: I was at home at Croydon, being by that time first lieutenant of

the Hebe, but she was just paid off. One morning, at breakfast, the

letter-bag from the village was brought in as usual, my mother taking

them out, reading off all the addresses through her spectacles, while

Jane made the coffee. My mother handed Jane a ship-letter, which she

put somewhere in her dress, with a blush, so that I knew in a moment

it must be from Tom Westwood, who was in the Company's civil service

in India, upcountry. "None for me, mother?" asked I eagerly; for the

fact was I had got one or two at different times, at Canton and the

Cape of Good Hope, during the two years. "Yes, Ned," said my mother,

eyeing it again and again, anxiously enough, as I thought; "there

is--but I fear it is some horrid thing from those Admirals"--the

Admiralty, she meant--"and they will be sending you off immediately--or

a war, or something. Oh dear me, Ned," exclaimed the good woman, quite

distressed, "won't you do as I wish you, and stay altogether!" By the

Lord Harry! when I opened it, 'twas a letter from Lord Frederick Bury,

who had succeeded to his eldest brother's title while we were out,

saying he had the promise of a commandership for me, as soon as a new

brig for the West India station was ready. "I shan't have to go for six

or seven months at any rate, mother," said I, "by which time I shall be

confounded tired of the land, _I_ know!" She wanted me to buy a small

estate near Croydon, shoot, fish, and dig, I suppose; while Jane said I

ought to marry, especially as she had a girl with money in her eye for

me. Still they saw it was no use, and began to give it up.

Why I never heard at all from a certain quarter, I couldn't think. Till

that time, in fact, I had been as sure of her proving true as I was of

breezes blowing; but now I couldn't help fancying all sorts of tyranny

on the Judge's part and her mother's, not to speak of Tom's uncle, the

Councillor. I went down the lane for the twentieth time, past the end

of the house they had lived in, where the windows had been shuttered

up and the gates close ever since I came. All of a sudden, this time,

I saw there were workmen about the place, the windows open, and two

servants washing down the yellow wheels of a travelling carriage. I

made straight back for our house, went up to Jane, who was at her

piano in the drawing-room, and asked, quite out of breath, _who_ was

come to the house over the park behind us. "Did you not know that old

Nabob was coming back from India?" said Jane. "His face was getting too

yellow, I suppose; and besides, his wife is dead--from his crossness,

no doubt. But the young lady is an heiress, Ned, and as I meant to tell

you, from good authority"--here the sly creature looked away into her

music--"passionately fond of the sea, which means, you know, of naval

officers"--"The devil she is, Jane!" I broke out; "what did Westwood

mean by that?--but _when_ are they coming, for heaven's sake?" "Why,"

said Jane, "I believe, from what I heard our gardener say, they arrived

last night." "Then, by Jove, my dear girl!" said I, "I'll tell you a

secret--and mind, I count on you!" My little sister was all alive in a

moment, ran to the door and shut it, then settled herself on the sofa

to hear what I had to say, as eagerly as you please. So I told her what

the whole matter was, with the state of things when we left Calcutta.

Jane seemed to reckon the affair as clear as a die; and you've no

notion what a lot of new ropes she put me up to in a concern of the

kind, as well as ways to carry it out ship-shape to the end, in spite

of the Judge--or else to smooth him over.

"The long and short of it was, I didn't leave till about seven months

after, when the Ferret was put in commission; but by that time it was

all smooth sailing before me. The Judge had got wonderfully softened;

and, you may be sure, I continued to see Violet Hyde pretty often

before I went to sea. You'd scarce believe it, but, after that twelve

months' cruise, I actually didn't leave the land for two years, which

I did owing to the chance I had of seeing sharp service in the Burmese

war, up the rivers, while General Campbell had tough work with them

inland. So that's all I can say, ma'am!"

* * * * *

"Very good, sir!" was the surgeon's cool remark. "And in fact, sir, I

fancy if every one of us were to commence telling his whole life over,

with everything that happened to him and his friends, he must stop

short somewhere--however long it might be!" The Captain smiled; they

sat on the poop talking for a while, sometimes saying nothing, but

watching the last night at sea.

The pilot-brig is spoken to windward next morning, even while the

deep-sea lead-line is being hove to sound the bottom. Falling sudden

from the foreyard, the weight takes the long line from hand after hand

back to the gangway, till it trembles against the ground. 'Tis drawn up

slowly, the wet coil secured, and the bottom of the lead showing its

little hollow filled with signs of earth--"Gray sand and shells!" They

stand on till the pilot is on board, the low land lifts and lengthens

before the ship; but the flow of the tide has yet to come, and take

them safely up amongst the winding shoals into the Indian river's

mouth. A new land, and the thoughts of strange new life, the gorgeous

sights and fantastic realities of the mighty country of the Mogul and

Rajahs, crowd before them after the wide solitary sea: the story is

already all but forgotten.--AND THE ANCHOR IS LET GO!

THE FRENCH WARS OF RELIGION.[27]

The history of the house of Guise has a natural division into two

periods, of nearly equal duration, whose point of separation may be

fixed at the death of Henry II., or, more strictly perhaps, at the

date of the treaty of Cateau-Cambrésis, which preceded it by three

months. Under Francis I. and Henry II., foreign wars engrossed much of

the time and energy of the warriors, foreign diplomacy gave frequent

occupation to the statesmen, of that restless and ambitious family,

which, during the reigns of Francis II., Charles IX., and Henry III.,

was busied with civil strife, domestic intrigues, and even with

disloyal and treasonable projects. The treaty above referred to--signed

on the 3d April 1559, and by which France abandoned no less than one

hundred and ninety-eight fortresses, including the conquests of thirty

years in Piedmont--stipulated a durable alliance between the Kings of

France and Spain, "who were to love each other as brothers, and labour

in concert for the extinction of heresy." This was the prelude of a

long peace with the foreigner, but also of a long series of intestine

wars, and of more bloodshed and misery than any invasion from without

would have probably occasioned. France was on the eve of the Wars of

Religion. Calvinism grew daily stronger in the land, many of whose most

illustrious nobles were soon included amongst its proselytes; until at

last the princes of the blood themselves, jealous of the influence,

power, and pretensions of the princes of Lorraine, placed themselves

at the head of the Protestant party. Thus, early in the reign of that

sickly and feeble prince, Francis II., _Bourbon_ and _Guise_ entered

the lists, to struggle for the chief power in the state, and to

commence, during the lifetime of four sons of Henry II., a long contest

for the inheritance of the declining house of Valois. On the one side,

the chief posts were occupied by Anthony of Bourbon, King of Navarre,

by his brother, the Prince of Condé--far superior to him in ability,

and who was the chief of the party--and by that brave and skilful

soldier and commander, Gaspard de Châtillon, Admiral de Coligny.

Opposed to these, the principal figures in the Protestant ranks, stood

the Duke of Guise and his brothers--notably the astute, cruel, and

violent cardinal, Charles of Lorraine. Catherine of Medicis, who had

been allowed little interference in public affairs during her husband's

life, came forward at his death, and played a striking and important

part in the strange historical drama which comprised the reigns of

three of her sons. Adopting a machiavelian and unscrupulous policy,

her intrigues were directed alternately to support and damage the

most contrary interests; but, at the outset of her political career,

her dislike to Montmorency, and her eagerness to grasp a share of the

power from which he had largely contributed to her exclusion, impelled

her to an alliance with the Guises, by whom it was evident that the

kingdom was, for a time at least, to be virtually ruled. Her husband's

body was yet above ground, when she joined them and her son at the

Louvre--whither they had conducted Francis, after proclaiming him King,

from his residence at the palace of the Tournelles; and scarcely had

it been deposited in the vaults of St Denis, when the treaty between

her and them was sealed by the sacrifice of Diane de Poitiers, whose

daughter was their sister-in-law by her marriage with Claude, Marquis

of Mayenne, but who, nevertheless, was driven ignominiously from court,

and compelled to give up the costly jewels she had received from her

royal lover, and to appease Catherine by the gift of her magnificent

castle of Chenonceaux.

The circumstances of the time, and their own high connections, were

singularly favourable to the Guises' assumption of the chief power.

"No influence in the kingdom," says M. de Bouillé, "was comparable to

that of those two men. The clergy, the richest and the first of the

three orders of the state, professed an unbounded devotion for the

Cardinal; in Francis of Lorraine the greater part of the nobility,

military men, even magistrates, habitually recognised a skilful chief,

a sure friend, a zealous protector. The Queen (Mary Stuart) was niece

of the Guises; their cousin, the Duke of Lorraine, was brother-in-law

of the King; the husband of another sister of Francis II., Philip of

Spain, was well pleased that the royal choice had fallen upon them in

preference to Anthony of Bourbon, who would not have failed to apply

his power to the attempted recovery of Navarre from Spain. Finally,

obligations of gratitude attached the Duke of Savoy to them. So

many advantages, such numerous means of access, united with so many

talents and so much glory, rendered their position very natural." The

humiliation of the Bourbons was proportionate to the exaltation of

their rivals. Montmorency received, from the lips of the King himself,

advice to retire to his domain of Chantilly, a rustication and disgrace

which left the veteran Constable no resource but to ally himself with

the princes of the blood. These were deliberating at Vendôme, with

d'Andelot and their other confidential partisans, as to the means of

opposing the authority of the Guise, when they received the overtures

and exhortations of the Constable, who pressed and prevailed with the

King of Navarre to repair to court. But slights and affronts were there

offered both to him and to the Prince of Condé, and soon they were glad

again to absent themselves. Within nine months of the accession of

Francis, the plot known as the conspiracy of Amboise, of which Condé

was the secret head, was formed, discovered, and crushed; the Duke of

Guise displaying much energy and prudence, the Cardinal of Lorraine

great cruelty and a most unchristian spirit, in its repression, and

in the treatment of the baffled conspirators. For the third time

Guise was named lieutenant-general of the kingdom, and invested with

unlimited powers. The conspiracy to which he was indebted for this

aggrandisement, was, however, the result of his brother's violent and

persecuting spirit. The Cardinal had spurred the Huguenots to revolt.

In all their proclamations, manifestos, and justificatory publications,

they protested their loyalty to the King, and declared that they took

arms solely against the family of Guise. It did not suit the purpose

of these princes to admit the sincerity of the distinctions thus made.

"What have I done to my subjects," exclaimed the feeble King, "that

they should bear me such ill-will? Is it not rather to you, gentlemen,

that they are opposed? I would that for a time you would depart, that

we might see if these disorders ceased." The words had been suggested

by the Spanish ambassador; but Francis knew not how to give them

effect, and was easily cajoled by his uncles, who assured him that

their absence would be the signal for attempts on his life and the

lives of his brothers--attempts already planned by the Bourbons and

supported by the heretics.

We pass on to the close of the short reign of Francis II., which

extended over barely seventeen months. His death occurred on the 5th

December 1560. The 10th of the same month was to have witnessed the

execution of the Prince of Condé, condemned as traitor and heretic.

But when a sudden swoon at vespers, succeeded by violent pains in the

head, indicated the probable dissolution of the sickly monarch, whose

constitution was already undermined by disease, Catherine de Medicis,

unwilling to lose Condé, who served her as a counterpoise to the power

of the Guise, took measures to delay his doom, and opened negotiations

with the King of Navarre. This prince signed an agreement guaranteeing

the regency to Catherine during the minority of Charles IX. She and her

council were to have the sole direction of political affairs; whilst

Anthony de Bourbon, with the title of lieutenant-general, was to be

military chief of the kingdom. On the other hand, Catherine brought

about his reconciliation with the Guises; inducing Francis II. to

declare on his death-bed that the prosecution of Condé emanated not

from them, but from his will alone. At the very moment she rendered

this service to the princes of Lorraine, she was plotting with

Bourbon their banishment from court. It were bewildering, and indeed

impossible, in a brief essay on that busy period, to trace the tortuous

policy and seemingly contradictory intrigues of the Queen-mother. It

suffices to state her aim, then and for long afterwards. By pitting one

faction against the other, and alternately supporting both, she secured

for herself a larger share of power than she would have obtained by

assisting in the final triumph of either.

The death of their niece's royal husband was a great shock to the

Guises, who in his name had exercised absolute authority. It was

subject of rejoicing to the Protestants, who deemed it "a stroke of

heavenly mercy"--a mystical expression of satisfaction, which made some

suspect poison to be the cause of the King's death. For this there

seems to have been no foundation. But such suspicions were the fashion

of the time. Beside the bed of Francis stood Coligny, the Cardinal of

Lorraine, and many other nobles. When the monarch breathed his last,

"Gentlemen," said the Admiral, with his habitual earnest gravity, "the

King is dead; 'tis a lesson for us how to live." He returned home

with one of his intimates, named Fontaines, and fell into a profound

reverie, his tooth-pick in his mouth and his feet to the fire. He did

not observe that his boots were burning, until Fontaines called his

attention to the fact. "Ah, Fontaines!" then replied the Admiral, "not

a week ago you and I would each have given a leg for things to take

this turn, and now, we get off with a pair of boots; it is cheap."

Not one of the six brothers Guise followed the funeral of Francis

II., whose loss they had such reason to deplore. In cutting allusion

to this indecent neglect, an unknown hand affixed to the black velvet

that covered the royal bier the following inscription--"_Where is

Tanneguy Duchâtel? But he was a Frenchman!_" This was a chamberlain of

Charles VII., who, although unjustly banished from court, had mourned

his master's death, and had provided magnificently for his interment,

sacrilegiously neglected by that king's own son. The inscription bore

a double sting, for it both condemned the conduct of the Guises, and

stigmatised them as foreigners. In vain did they strive to justify

themselves, alleging the necessity of their presence at court. And they

were equally unable to refute the charge of having appropriated, during

the illness of Francis, a considerable sum that remained in the royal

treasury. This was done with the connivance of Catherine.

The state of affairs after the accession of Charles IX., was as

follows: Condé was released from prison, the King of Navarre was in

favour with the Queen-mother, the Bourbons and Guises affected mutual

friendship, the Colignys and the Constable were continually at the

palace; the star of the Bourbon party was in the ascendant. But those

were the days of political and religious renegades, and a very short

time produced wonderful changes in the composition of the two great

parties. Soon we find the King of Navarre going over to the Church of

Rome, and the Constable abandoning the cause of his nephews to assist

at the germination of the celebrated _League_, into which the Guises

and other great Catholic chiefs afterwards entered for the suppression

of Protestantism, and for the overthrow of the party headed by Condé

and Coligny.

It is a matter of extreme difficulty to form a correct opinion of the

character of the Duke of Guise, diversely represented as it has been

by the party writers of the time. M. de Bouillé has endeavoured, with

patience and industry, to sift the truth from the mass of conflicting

evidence; and if he is not completely successful, it is because such

contradictory testimony as he has to deal with defies reconciliation.

His zeal for truth leads him into researches and disquisitions through

which not all of his readers perhaps will have patience to follow

him, although they are doubtless essential to the completeness of a

work which is eminently what the French term _un ouvrage sérieux_.

With an evident desire for strict impartiality, he leans a little,

as it appears to us, to the Catholic party--no unnatural bias in a

writer of that religion. We, on the other hand, as Protestants, have

to guard ourselves against the strong interest and sympathy inspired

by the faith, the valour, and the sufferings of the French Huguenots:

and we cannot but admit the justice of M. de Bouillé's conclusion,

that although, amongst these, many were martyrs for religion's sake,

many others assumed the Protestant badge from motives of political

convenience as much as from conscientious conviction. As regards the

second Duke of Guise, however, we find difficulty in always coinciding

with his present historian, who makes him out a better man than

previous reading had taught us to believe him. All the three Dukes of

Guise were moral giants--men of extraordinary qualities, who towered

far above their cotemporaries. All three were valiant, sagacious,

and skilful in no common degree; but they were also ambitious and

unscrupulous--the son more so than the father, the grandson more than

either. In estimating their qualities and actions, M. de Bouillé justly

makes much allowance for the prevalent fanaticism of the time; but he

sometimes goes too far towards the adoption of the opinions of Catholic

writers, who find extenuating circumstances in the conduct of the

arch-butcher, Henry of Lorraine, on the night of St Bartholomew, and

who acquit his father of sanctioning that barbarous massacre at Vassy,

which was the spark to the powder--the actual commencement of the wars

of religion.

The little town of Vassy, adjacent to the domains of Guise, was the

headquarters of a numerous Protestant congregation, whose preaching

and acts of devotion "greatly scandalised," says M. de Bouillé, "the

virtuous Antoinette de Bourbon, surnamed by the Huguenots, _Mother

of the tyrants and enemies of the gospel_." She constantly implored

the Duke, her son, to rid her of these obnoxious neighbours, which

he promised to do, if it were possible without violation of the

royal edicts. Upon the 1st March 1562, a journey he made in company

with his wife--then with child and travelling in a litter--led him

through Vassy. "His suite consisted of two hundred men-at-arms, all

partaking, and even surpassing, the exalted Catholicism and warlike

temper of their chief. At Vassy he was to be joined by sixty more. On

arriving there, he entered the church to hear high mass; and, whether

it was that the psalms of the Calvinists reached his ears, or that he

was maliciously informed of their being then assembled, or that the

clergy of Vassy complained and solicited the repression of outrages

received from the sectarians, the fact is that he learned that their

preaching was then going on. With the intention of giving them a severe

admonition, he sent for their minister, and for the chief members

of the congregation. His messenger was Labrosse, the son,--who was

accompanied by two German pages, Schleck and Klingberg, one of whom

carried his arquebuse and the other his pistols. These young men

were violent in the fulfilment of their mission, and an exchange of

insults was soon followed by bloodshed. At the first shots fired,

the men-at-arms and the varlets, already disposed to hostilities,

took part in the unequal fray. The five or six hundred Protestants,

although superior in number, were far from sufficiently armed to offer

an effectual resistance. They sought to establish a barricade, and to

defend themselves with sticks and stones. The Duke, who hurried to

the scene of the tumult, found himself unable to repress it. Some of

his gentlemen were hit; the face of Labrosse, the father, streamed

with blood; Guise himself was wounded in the left cheek by a stone. At

sight of his hurt, his followers' fury knew no bounds. The Protestants,

overwhelmed, (_écrasés_,) uttered piercing cries; and, endeavouring to

escape by all issues, even by the roof, delivered themselves to the

bullets of their enemies. Anne d'Est, who was peaceably pursuing her

journey, paused on hearing the sounds of strife, and sent in all haste

to entreat her husband to put an end to the effusion of blood; _but the

carnage lasted an hour_; sixty men and women lost their lives and two

hundred were wounded. On the side of the Prince of Lorraine, some men

were also more or less hurt; only one was killed."

A champion so energetic and formidable, a commander so much beloved,

as the Duke of Guise, would certainly have succeeded, had he really

attempted and desired to do so, in somewhat less than an hour, in

checking his men-at-arms and stopping this inhuman massacre, which

procured him from the Reformed party the odious nickname of _the

Butcher of Vassy_. M. de Bouillé inclines to consider the slaughter

on that fatal day as a sort of cruel reprisals, deplorable certainly,

but in some measure extenuated by various excesses committed by the

Huguenots--excesses, however, to which he but vaguely refers. It must

be remembered that, at the time of the massacre of Vassy, an edict,

obtained less than two months previously by the exertions and influence

of Coligny and l'Hospital, and granting the Protestants liberty of

conscience and free exercise of their religion, was in full force. The

following passage from M. de Bouillé sufficiently shows the _animus_ of

Guise--"When the return of a gloomy calm suffered him to discern the

sad character of such a scene, the Duke fell into a passion with Claude

Tourneur, captain of the town and castle of Vassy for Mary Stuart; he

imputed the day's misfortunes to the toleration that officer had shown

in suffering the formation of Calvinist assemblies. Tourneur, in his

justification, cited the edict of January; but Guise clapped his hand

to his sword, 'This,' he said, 'shall rescind that detestable edict!'"

When the news of the massacre reached Paris, Theodore de Bèze, deputed

by the Calvinist church of the capital, presented himself before

Catherine to demand severe justice on the Duke of Guise. Catherine

received him well and replied favourably; When the King of Navarre,

in all the fervour of his new religion and sudden friendship for the

Duke, burst out into anger against Bèze, attributing all the fault to

the Protestants of Vassy, and declaring that "whoever touched as much

as the finger-tip of his brother the Duke of Guise touched him in the

middle of his heart." "Sire," replied Bèze, "it assuredly behoves that

church of God in whose name I speak to endure blows, and not to strike

them; but may it please you also to remember, that it is an anvil which

has worn out many hammers." This menacing resignation was an omen of

approaching calamities.

Although Anthony of Bourbon, King of Navarre, was of little value at

the council-board, or in any other way than as a brave man-at-arms, his

conversion and alliance were highly prized by the Catholic party, as

a great diminution of the _prestige_ of the Protestants. The Duke of

Guise and his brothers, the Constable, and even the Spanish ambassador

Chantonnay, combined to flatter and cajole the feeble prince, who on

his part knew not how sufficiently to demonstrate his zeal for Popery

and his love for the family of Lorraine. On Palm Sunday he marched

in procession, accompanied by his new friends and by two thousand

gentlemen of their party, bearing the consecrated branches from the

church of St Genevieve to that of Notre-Dame. On occasion of this

solemnity it has been said that the life of the Duke of Guise was in

danger--some Protestant gentlemen having offered to assassinate him,

if their ministers would authorise the deed in the name of religion.

This authorisation was refused; the Calvinist churchmen "with greater

prudence," says M. de Bouillé, "preferring to await the result of the

complaint they had made with respect to the massacre of Vassy." It is

hardly fair thus to insinuate that prudential considerations alone

influenced this abstinence from assassination. Guise was considered,

especially after the massacre of Vassy, the most dangerous foe of the

Huguenot party; and more than one plan for his murder was laid prior

to that which succeeded. But there is no proof that these plots were

instigated by either the chiefs or the priests of the party. On the

contrary, everything concurs to stamp them as proceeding solely from

the religious fanaticism or violent party spirit of individuals. During

the siege of Rouen--the first important operation of the war that now

broke out--"the Duke of Guise," says M. de Bouillé, "was informed that

an assassin had entered the camp with the project of taking his life.

He sent for and calmly interrogated him--'Have you not come hither

to kill me?' he said. Surprised at his detection, and trembling with

apprehension of punishment, this young gentleman of Mans at once avowed

his criminal design. 'And what motive,' inquired the Duke, 'impelled

you to such a deed? Have I done you any wrong?' 'No; but in so doing I

should serve my religion--that is to say, the belief in the doctrine

of Calvin, which I profess.' 'My religion then is better than yours,'

cried Guise with a generous impulse, 'for it commands me to pardon,

of my own accord, you who are convicted of guilt.' And by his orders

the gentleman was safely conducted out of the camp. A fine example,"

exclaims M. de Bouillé, "of truly religious sentiments and magnanimous

proselytism, very natural to the Duke of Guise, the most moderate

and humane of the chiefs of the Catholic army; and whose brilliant

generosity--true basis of the character of this great man--had been but

temporarily obscured by the occurrence at Vassy!"

At this siege of Rouen, Guise performed prodigies of valour; and

Anthony of Bourbon, second to none in high soldierly spirit, had

his jealousy roused by the exploits of his ally. Determined also to

signalise himself, he needlessly exposed his life, and was hit by an

arquebuse ball. The wound was severe, and Ambrose Paré declared it

mortal, in contradiction to the opinions of several other physicians,

who gave hopes of cure. Ten days afterwards Rouen was taken by assault;

and on learning this, the King of Navarre insisted on being carried in

triumph to his quarters in the captured town. Preceded by musicians,

he was borne upon his bed through the breach by a detachment of Swiss

soldiers. The fatigue and excitement increased the inflammation of his

wound, and hastened his death. In his last moments he showed symptoms

of regretting his change of religion; but notwithstanding this tardy

repentance, the Protestants, against whom since his perversion to Rome

he had used great severity, rejoiced exceedingly at his death, which

they celebrated as a chastisement proceeding from Heaven.

The fall of Rouen was quickly followed by the battle of Dreux, one

of the most interesting actions of those wars. Condé was threatening

Paris, when the Duke of Guise, following the example twice given by his

father (in 1536 and 1544,) hurried from Rouen, where his troops had

committed frightful excesses, but where he had successfully invoked

the royal clemency in favour of the officers of the captured garrison,

to give the inhabitants of the capital the benefit of his valour and

skill. He there received a reinforcement of seven thousand Gascons

and Spaniards; and Condé, seeing Paris so well defended, and that the

chances of a general action, which he had at first been disposed to

provoke, were no longer in his favour, retreated towards Normandy to

establish communications with the English, who had already sent some

slight succours to the Protestants.

Guise pursued, gained a march on him, and confronted him near Dreux.

The movements of the Catholics were nominally directed by the

Constable, but Guise was in fact the presiding spirit. Unwilling to

assume the responsibility of such a battle as appeared imminent, the

Duke desired to cast it upon Catherine of Medicis, and accordingly, on

the 14th December, he had sent Castlenau to that princess to know her

decision. The envoy reached Vincennes at the moment of her _lever_. She

affected surprise that experienced generals should send for counsel to

a woman and child, whom the imminence of civil war plunged in grief.

The King's nurse coming in at that moment, 'You should ask her,' said

the Queen ironically, 'if battle is to be given.' And calling the

woman to her--'Nurse,' she said, 'the time has come that men ask of

women advice to give battle; how seems it to you?' A second messenger

from the _triumvirate_[28] pressed for a decision; the council was

assembled, and left everything to the prudence and judgment of the

generals. With this semi-authorisation, these took up a position

in the villages adjacent to Dreux, menacing Condé's left flank.

Numerically stronger than the Protestants, they had fewer cavalry,

but were well posted. The main body was commanded by the Constable

in person; Guise, too proud to act as second in command, remained

in reserve with his own company of men-at-arms and a few volunteers

who had joined him. With these five hundred picked horsemen he was

prepared to strike in where his aid might most be wanted. For two hours

the armies remained in mutual observation, without even a skirmish.

After hearing the report of d'Andelot, who had made a reconnoissance,

Condé would gladly have avoided a battle, or at least have changed the

ground. "By a movement to his right he exposed his flank; the Constable

wished to take advantage of this. Condé's advanced guard, under

Coligny, furiously charged the Royalist centre, as it advanced under

Montmorency. The Prince himself, who, with his main body, was opposed

to St André and the advanced guard, neglected to attack them, but

directed all his efforts against the principal mass of the Catholics,

imprudently bringing all his cavalry into action, and penetrating

to the very colours of the Swiss troops, who successfully withstood

this terrible shock. Contrary to the advice of the Duke of Guise,

who urged him to let this fury expend itself, d'Anville, with three

companies of men-at-arms and the light horse, hurried to attack Condé;

but soon, surrounded by the German cavalry, he was forced to retreat

upon the right wing, composed of Spanish infantry, and protected by

fourteen pieces of cannon. Meanwhile the Constable opposed an energetic

resistance to the attack of his nephew Coligny. In the midst of this

terrible _mêlée_, Montmorency, as unfortunate as at St Quintin, had

his horse killed under him; he mounted another, but the next moment,

wounded in the jaw by a pistol-shot, he was taken prisoner. Around

him fell his fourth son Montbéron, Beauvais, and the Sieur de Givry.

The Duke of Aumale--fighting with the utmost ardour, overthrown by

the fugitives, and trampled under the horses' feet--had his shoulder

broken, the bone of the arm being almost uncovered, and split up to

the joint, so that for six weeks he could not ride. The Grand Prior

was also wounded. The entire main body, and a part of the advanced

guard, (which had been disposed on the same line with the centre, or

_corps de bataille_,) were totally routed; the artillery covering

them was in the power of the enemy; five thousand Swiss alone still

displayed a bold front. The Protestants, however, headlong in pursuit

of the vanquished, outstripped these troops and reached the baggage,

which they plundered, 'even that of Monsieur de Guise and his silver

plate;'[29] then, reforming, they returned to the charge against the

Swiss--who, frequently broken, always rallied, and at last, seeing

themselves attacked on all sides by Condé's lansquenets, were no longer

contented to hold their ground, but pressed forward and repulsed their

assailants."

The battle seemed won, when Guise, who had remained all this time

inactive, at last decided to advance. He has often been reproached

for the apathy with which he had so long beheld the disasters of the

Catholic army. It certainly looked very much as if he wished to requite

in kind Montmorency's inaction, eight years previously, at the combat

of Renty. His conduct may have been, as M. de Bouillé inclines to

believe, the result of prudent calculation; and it is difficult, after

this lapse of time, to prove that less caution would not have been

fatal to the Catholic army. The succour that retrieved the fortune

of the day came so late, however, that the victors' loss exceeded

that of the vanquished. When Montmorency's son, d'Anville, beheld his

brother slain and his father prisoner, he hurried to Guise--whose

reserve was concealed from the enemy behind the village of Blainville

and a cluster of trees--and franticly implored him to rescue the

Constable by an impetuous charge. Guise refused to stir. Presently,

however, when he saw that the Huguenots, disordered by success, deemed

the battle completely won, he advanced at a steady pace, rallying

the fugitives, bringing up the advanced guard, and uniting with the

Spaniards and Gascons. Thus supported, he moved boldly against the

hostile battalions, which gave way before him. d'Andelot, whom fever

kept from the field, first perceived the disastrous change in the

issue of the combat. Unarmed, wrapped in a furred dressing-gown, he

sprang forward to cheek the rout; and, observing the good order of the

Duke of Guise's reserve--"Yonder," he said, "is a tail that it will

be very difficult to scotch." In vain the Prince of Condé sought to

rally his cavalry, paralysed by the sustained fire of eight hundred

arquebusiers posted by St André. The carnage was frightful. Condé,

wounded in the right hand, lost his horse, killed by a bullet; and

as he was about to remount he was surrounded, and compelled to yield

himself prisoner to d'Anville, who burned to revenge his father's

wound and captivity. Thereupon the gallant Coligny, who had rallied

fifteen or sixteen hundred horse in a little valley, returned to the

charge to rescue the prince; and so terrible was his onset upon Guise's

squadrons, that these wavered, and Guise himself was for a moment

in great danger. But the fire of two thousand arquebusiers, posted

on his flanks, covered the confusion of his cavalry, and compelled

Coligny to a retreat, which was effected in good order. Night fell;

Guise did not pursue; and Coligny saved a part of his artillery, but

lost, in that day's action, three or four thousand men. The loss of

the Catholics amounted to five or six thousand, and was particularly

severe in cavalry. By a strange coincidence, the two generals-in-chief

were prisoners. The conquerors had to regret the loss of several other

distinguished leaders. In the closing act of this obstinately-contested

fight, Marshal St André, thrown from his horse and made prisoner, was

pistolled by Daubigny, a former follower of his, who had long been his

bitter foe. Both the Labrosses, and Jean d'Annebaut, were also slain;

and the Duke of Nevers had his thigh broken. At first it was rumoured

in the Protestant army that Guise himself was killed. "Knowing," says

Etienne Pasquier in one of his letters, quoted by M. de Bouillé,

"that it was he at whom the Huguenots would chiefly aim, and doubting

not but that his army was full of spies, upon the eve of the battle

he declared publicly at supper what horse he would ride, and what

would be his arms and equipment upon the following day. But the next

morning, before proceeding to the rendezvous, he gave up that horse

and accoutrements to his esquire. Well for him that he did so! for the

esquire was killed, whilst he for a while escaped." It is recorded that

the esquire, Varicarville, solicited permission thus to devote himself

for his leader's safety. The stratagem was so successful, that when

Guise, late in the day, made his appearance, the Admiral and Condé

were completely astonished. "Here, then, is the cunning fellow whose

shadow we have pursued," exclaimed Coligny. "We are lost; the victory

will slip from our hands."--"The day's success came most apropos to M.

de Guise," wrote Pasquier, "for of one defeat he made two victories;

the captivity of the Constable, his rival in renown, not being less

advantageous to him than that of the Prince, his open foe." Whilst

Coligny marched off his uncle and prisoner to Orleans, to place him

in the hands of the Princess of Condé, Guise, with characteristic

magnanimity, courteously and kindly received his inveterate enemy, the

Prince. Quartered in Blainville, which the Huguenots had devastated,

and deprived of his baggage, he could command but a single bed, which

he offered to Condé, with other marks of deference for the first prince

of the blood. Touched by his conqueror's generosity, Condé momentarily

forgot his hatred; supped at Guise's table--freely discussed with him

the basis of a peace, of whose conclusion the presumed destruction of

his party made him desirous--and finally accepted the proffered couch,

only on condition that the Duke should share it with him.

The news of the victory of Dreux was received at Paris with transports

of joy, and once more the name of "saviour of his country" was applied

to Guise. The alarm in the capital had been very great, and not

without reason. "If this battle had been lost," wrote Montluc in his

_Commentaries_, "I believe it was all over with France: both the state

and the religion would have been changed; for a young king may be made

to do anything." The satisfaction of Catherine de Medicis was by no

means unalloyed. She did not like Condé; but his defeat destroyed the

equilibrium which she had hitherto so carefully maintained, to the

benefit of her own influence. She now felt herself under the pressure

of a power, moderate in form but absolute in fact. There was no help

for it, however; neither, in the absence of the Constable, was there

any excuse for withholding the chief command from the Duke of Guise,

who was accordingly appointed lieutenant-general of the kingdom. He

did not long enjoy his new dignity. The battle of Dreux was fought

on the 19th December. Just two months later, on the night of the

18th February, Guise--after arranging everything for the assault of

Orleans upon the following day, and announcing to the Queen-mother

his conviction of approaching triumph--left the camp on horseback,

accompanied only by one of his officers and a page, to visit the

Duchess, who had that day reached the neighbouring castle of Corney.

"He had crossed the Loiret in a boat, and was walking his horse,

when, at a cross-road, he felt himself wounded in the right shoulder,

almost under the arm, by a pistol-shot fired behind a hedge, from

between two great walnut trees, at a distance of only six or seven

paces. Notwithstanding the darkness, a white plume he wore upon his

head signalised him; and as, for the sake of ease, he had taken off

his cuirass at evening, those bullets, aimed just above the armour

which the assassin believed him to wear, passed through his body.

'They have long had this shot in reserve for me,' exclaimed he, on

feeling himself wounded; 'I deserve it for my want of precaution.'

Unable to support himself for pain, he fell on his horse's neck; in

vain he endeavoured to draw his sword: his arm refused its service.

Carried to his quarters, he was welcomed by the cries of the Duchess

of Guise, whom he embraced and told her himself the circumstances of

his assassination, by which he declared himself grieved for the honour

of France. He exhorted his wife to submit with resignation to the will

of heaven; then, covering with kisses the Prince of Joinville, who

was weeping, he said to him, gently, 'God grant thee grace, my son,

to be a good man!'" Poltrot de Méré, the assassin, escaped for the

moment, although promptly pursued; but he lost his way in the darkness,

and after riding ten leagues, found himself at daybreak close to the

Catholic cantonments. Worn out with fatigue, as was also his horse--a

good Spanish charger, for whose purchase he had received a hundred

crowns from Coligny--he hid himself in a farm, and was there arrested,

on the 20th February, by the Duke's secretary, La Seurre. The gift of

the hundred crowns has been alleged against the Admiral as a proof of

his having instigated the crime; but, in fact, it was no proof at all,

for Poltrot had been acting as a secret agent and spy to the Huguenots,

and might very well receive that sum, as he had previously received a

smaller one, as guerdon for the information he brought. He himself, on

his examination, declared he had been urged to the deed by Coligny,

Theodore de Bèze, and another Protestant minister; but he could adduce

no proof, save that of one hundred and twenty crowns received from

Coligny, to whom he had been recommended, as a useful agent, by a

Huguenot leader in eastern France. And his previous life rendered his

bare assertion worthless, whilst the high character of the men he

impeached raised them above suspicion--in the eyes of unprejudiced

persons--of having instigated so foul a deed. They addressed a letter

to the Queen-mother, repelling the charge, and entreating that

Poltrot's life might be spared until peace should be concluded, when

they would confront him and refute his testimony. Coligny declared

that he had even discountenanced such plots, and referred to a warning

he had given the Duke, only a few days previously, "to be on his

guard, for there was a man suborned to kill him." At the same time he

repudiated all regret for the Duke's death, which he declared the best

thing that could have happened for the kingdom and for the church of

God. But, to his dying day, he protested his innocence of the blood

of Guise; and his life and character give weight and credibility to

the protest. M. de Bouillé makes some judicious reflections as to the

share Catherine of Medicis may have had in instigating the murder. Her

jealousy and distrust of the Guises were very strong: she had opposed

the siege of Orleans, and thrown obstacles in the way of its successful

issue; she had hastened the execution of the murderer, as soon as

he had accused the Admiral of complicity. We are certainly doing no

injustice to the character of that most corrupt and crafty queen, when

we assume the possibility that hopes of a mitigated punishment, or of

means of escape, had been held out to induce Poltrot to depone against

the Admiral; and that then, the deposition obtained, the pledge to the

unhappy wretch was broken, and the murderer's doom inflicted. Such

double treachery was quite in concord with Catherine's character. She

felt that suspicions would attach to her, and endeavoured to stifle

them by a display of profound grief, by loading with favours the family

of the victim, and by a promise of severe and full measure of justice.

The death of Francis of Lorraine (on Ash Wednesday, 24th February

1563,) was the immediate cause of a treaty of peace between Catholics

and Protestants, for which the Queen-mother had for some time been

paving the way. On a small island in the middle of the Loire, near

Orleans, the two illustrious captives, Condé and the Constable, met,

each under strong escort; and terms were agreed upon, the principal of

which were a general amnesty, and freedom of conscience and worship,

under certain restrictions of place, for the Huguenots. All prisoners

were released on both sides; and Orleans, which had so nearly shared

the fate of Rouen, opened its gates to the King and Queen-mother, who

were to take possession of it without any marks of triumph.

"On the eve of the tournament in which Henry II. was mortally wounded

by Montgomery, that king held upon his knees his little daughter

Margaret, afterwards wife of Henry IV. Diverted by the repartees of

the child, who already gave promise of great wit and understanding,

and seeing the Prince of Joinville, and the Marquis of Beaupréau, (son

of the Prince of La Roche-sur-Yon,) playing together in the room, the

King asked Margaret which of the two she liked best. 'I prefer the

Marquis,' she replied, 'he is gentler and better.' 'Yes,' said the

King, 'but Joinville is handsomest.' 'Oh,' retorted Margaret, 'he is

always in mischief, and _will_ be master everywhere.' Joinville was

but nine years old, and Margaret was only seven, but she had already

deciphered the character of the man whose ambition set all France in a

flame." A prediction of Francis of Lorraine, recorded by M. de Bouillé,

confirmed that of the precocious princess. Observant of his son's

character, from infancy upwards, he is said to have foretold that,

carried away and dazzled by popularity and its vain promises, he would

perish in an attempt to upset the kingdom. The event may fairly be said

to have justified the prophecy. Henry, third Duke of Guise, fell by his

ambition. "Inferior to his father as a warrior," says M. de Bouillé,

"he perhaps surpassed all the princes of his house in certain natural

gifts, in certain talents, which procured him the respect of the court,

the affection of the people, but which, nevertheless, were tarnished by

a singular alloy of great faults and unlimited ambition." The historian

proceeds to give a glowing description of his beauty, accomplishments,

and seductive qualities. "France was mad about that man," wrote Balzac,

"for it is too little to say she was in love with him. Her passion

approached idolatry. There were persons who invoked him in their

prayers, others who inserted his portrait in their books. His portrait,

indeed, was everywhere: some ran after him in the streets to touch

his mantle with their rosaries; and one day that he entered Paris by

the Porte St Antoine, on his return from a journey to Champagne, they

not only cried _Vive Guise!_ but many sang on his passage: _Hosanna

filio David!_ Large assemblies were known to yield themselves at once

captive to his pleasant countenance. No heart could resist that

face; it persuaded before he opened his mouth; it was impossible

to wish him harm in his presence.... And Huguenots belonged to the

League when they beheld the Duke of Guise." Although but thirteen

years old, at his father's death, Henry of Lorraine had accompanied

him in his recent campaigns, and at the siege of Orleans had had

opportunity to show symptoms of that cool intrepidity for which he was

afterwards remarkable. Profound dissimulation was another leading and

early-developed feature of his character; and in this respect he had

before him a first-rate model in the person of his uncle, the crafty

and unscrupulous Cardinal of Lorraine.

This prelate, who was rather violent than brave, was profoundly grieved

and alarmed by his brother's assassination, news of which reached him

at the Council of Trent. On receiving the sad intelligence, he fell

on his knees, and, lifting his hands and eyes to heaven: "Lord," he

exclaimed, "you have deprived the innocent brother of life, and left it

to the guilty!"--a cry of conscience, in which there was not a little

truth. He immediately surrounded himself with a guard. In a letter,

of which he took care to have copies handed about, he announced to

his mother his resolution to retire to his diocese, and pass the rest

of his days in preaching the word of God. Nevertheless he did not

quit the Council, where his weight, however, was somewhat lessened by

the Duke's death. But he recovered his ground, and finally exercised

a most important influence on its deliberations. On his return to

France, he obtained permission to retain his guard, consisting of fifty

arquebusiers, who never left him, accompanying him to church, when

he preached or said mass, and even conducting him to the door of the

King's cabinet. For nearly a year after his return from Italy, however,

he kept aloof from the capital and from public affairs, dividing his

time between Rheims and Joinville, but still secretly carrying on his

complicated intrigues. At last, on the 8th January 1565, he entered

Paris with a considerable escort, and in a sort of triumph, accompanied

by his young nephews, the Duke of Guise and the Marquis of Mayenne, and

by a number of knights, presidents, and gentlemen. Marshal Montmorency

(son of the Constable), who was now intimate with his cousin Coligny,

and ill-disposed to the Guises, was Governor of the Isle of France,

and had published, "on the 13th December, a royal ordinance, which, in

a spirit of precaution indispensable in those troubled times, forbade

all princes, nobles, or persons whatsoever, to travel with an armed

retinue. The Cardinal had a dispensation from the Queen-mother, but he

either disdained or neglected to present it to Montmorency. The Marshal

was most probably aware of its existence, but he ignored it, and

sent word to the Cardinal not to pursue his journey with a forbidden

escort. The Cardinal, considering this injunction an affront, heeded

it not, and was close to his journey's end, when he was encountered

in the streets of Paris, (Rue St Denis), by a body of infantry and

cavalry of both religions, under the orders of Montmorency and of the

Prince of Portien, who charged and routed his escort; and he himself

was compelled to seek safety in the humble dwelling of a rope-maker,

dragging with him his nephews, of whom the eldest especially, a pistol

in either hand, refused to quit the combat, unequal as it was, and,

by recalling his father's memory to the Parisians, already acquired

personal partisans. A faithful follower, who would have shut the door

upon them, was mortally wounded by the balls which struck the very

threshold of the room in which the Princes of Lorraine had taken

refuge. '_Seigneur, mon Dieu!_' cried the Cardinal, in this imminent

peril, 'if my hour is come, and the power of darkness, spare at least

the innocent blood!' Meanwhile the Duke of Aumale, who had entered

by the gate of the Louvre, created a diversion, which contributed to

appease the tumult of the Rue St Denis; and under cover of night, the

prelate, with his nephews and suite, was able to reach his _hôtel de

Cluny_."

It was in 1565 that the consideration of the formidable results

obtained by the close union of the Protestants, numerically weak,

suggested to the Cardinal de Lorraine, and a number of Catholic

nobleman, the idea of a counter-association on a grand scale, (the

germ of this dated from some years previously), to be composed of

prelates, gentlemen, magistrates, and of burgesses and other members

of the third estate, for the purpose of acting with promptitude and

independence, without awaiting the orders or the uncertain and tardy

succours of Government. This was the association known in history as

the League. At the end of the following year the young Duke of Guise,

who had been campaigning with the Emperor Maximilian against the

Turks, returned to France, just in time to see the curtain lifted for

the bloody drama of a new civil war. Already Huguenots and Catholics

were in mutual observation of each other. The former first assumed the

offensive. Alarmed by movements of troops, fresh levies, and other

menacing indications, they laid a plan to carry off Charles IX. then

at his hunting-seat of Monceaux, near Meaux. Once in their hands, they

calculated on making the young King the nominal chief of their party.

But the plot was betrayed, and recoiled upon its advisers by exciting

against them the implacable hatred of its object. "With even more oaths

than were necessary," says an old writer, the King exhaled his wrath,

and vowed vengeance against the Huguenots, from whom, however, he was

for the moment compelled to fly. Escorted by six thousand Swiss, and by

such other troops as could hastily be assembled, he took the road to

Paris, hard pressed for seven hours by Condé and the Admiral. But the

Protestant squadrons were unable to break the stern array of the Swiss;

on the second day d'Aumale, with several hundred well-armed gentlemen,

came out from Paris to swell the royal escort; and Charles entered his

capital in safety, furious at the rebels, and well-disposed to proceed

against them to any extremities the Guises might suggest. The anger of

this family was greatly roused by a trap laid, two days later, for the

Cardinal of Lorraine, who only escaped by quitting his carriage and

mounting a fleet horse, (some say that he had even to run a long way on

foot,) with loss of his plate and equipage.

Shut up in Paris, Charles IX. beheld the Huguenots almost at its

gates, intercepting supplies and burning the flour-mills. At last,

d'Andelot and Montgomery having marched towards Poissy, to oppose the

passage of a Spanish auxiliary corps, Condé and Coligny, with fifteen

hundred horse and eighteen hundred indifferently equipped infantry,

without artillery,[30] were attacked by the Constable at the head of

twelve thousand infantry, three thousand horse, and fourteen guns.

There ensued the brief but glorious battle of St Denis, in which

Montmorency was slain, and the Protestants, opposed to five times

their numbers, held victory in their grasp, when d'Aumale, seeing them

disordered by success, moved up with a body of picked men, whom he

had kept in reserve, (as his brother Francis had done at the battle

of Dreux,) rallied the fugitives, saved the Swiss from total defeat,

rescued the body of the Constable, and compelled Condé to retreat. The

laurels of the day, however, were unquestionably for the Huguenots,

notwithstanding that they abandoned the field; and the next day they

again offered battle to the royal army, but it was not accepted. Then

Condé, short of provisions and weakened by the action, retired towards

Lorraine, and effected his junction with an auxiliary corps of twelve

thousand men which came to him from Germany. There ensued a short and

hollow peace, which were better named an imperfectly-observed truce,

and which did not preclude persecution of the Protestants; and then

war again broke out, with the Duke of Anjou, (afterwards Henry III.)

at the head of the royal armies. The first action of this, the third

civil war, took place in the Perigord, and is known as the combat of

Mouvans--the name of one of the leaders who was killed. He and another

Huguenot gentleman were bringing up several thousand men to join the

Prince of Condé, when they were attacked, and routed with great loss,

by twelve hundred cavalry under the Duke of Montpensier. In this affair

the young Duke of Guise greatly distinguished himself, by an impetuous

and opportune charge on the main body of the enemy's infantry. Next

came the fatal battle of Jarnac--fatal, that is to say, to the

Protestants, who lost in it, or rather after it, by a felon-shot, their

gallant leader Condé. Against overwhelming numbers, his right arm

broken by a fall, wounded in the leg by the kick of a horse, dismounted

and unable to stand, that heroic prince, one knee upon the ground,

still obstinately defended himself. "The Catholics who surrounded him,

respecting so much courage, ceased to attack, and urged him to give

up his sword. He had already consented to do so,[31] his quality of

prisoner ought to have protected him, when Montesquiou, captain of the

Swiss guard of the Duke of Anjou, came up--with secret orders, it is

supposed--and sent a pistol-ball through his head. Thus undisguised

did the fury and hatred engendered by civil discord then exhibit

themselves. At the close of this same fight, and at no great distance

from the spot where Condé perished, Robert Stuart was also made

prisoner; and Honorat de Savoie, Count de Villars, obtained permission,

by dint of entreaty, to kill him with his own hand, in expiation of

the blow by which this Scot was accused of having mortally wounded

the Constable of Montmorency at the battle of St Denis. But even such

barbarity as this did not suffice, and to it were added cowardly

outrages and ignoble jests. The dead body of Condé was derisively

placed upon an ass, and followed the Duke of Anjou upon his triumphant

entrance into Jarnac, and was there laid upon a stone, at the door of

the quarters of the King's brother; whilst religious fury scrupled not

to justify by sarcasm the indignity of such acts."[32]

Greatly discouraged by the reverse of Jarnac, and by the loss of their

leader, the Protestant party presently had their hopes revived by

promised succours from Elizabeth of England, and from various German

princes. Coligny--now the real head of the party, whose titulary chiefs

were Henry of Béarn and his young cousin Condé--was joined by twelve

thousand Germans, under Duke Wolfgang of Zweibrucken. On the other

hand, the Catholic army was weakened by sickness and desertions, by

the want of discipline amongst the Swiss troops and German _reiters_,

chiefly composing it, and by discord between its generals. The Guises

were displeased at being commanded by the Duke of Anjou, who, in spite

of his extreme youth, had displayed valour, decision, and military

talents, whose promise was not fulfilled by his ignoble reign as Henry

III.

The siege of Poitiers cost the Protestant army much time and many

men. After the most vigorous efforts for its capture, Coligny retired

from before the town--which had been admirably defended, and owed its

safety less to a diversion made by the Duke of Anjou, (who menaced

Chatellerault) than to the great valour and activity of the Duke of

Guise, recalling, on a smaller scale, the glorious defence of Metz by

his father. Five breaches had been made in the walls, but the most

determined assaults were steadily and successfully repulsed. Of the

garrison, one-third perished, and the loss of the besiegers was very

heavy. On the 9th September, Guise and his brother Mayenne left the

town, at the head of fifteen hundred horse, and, after making a report

of their triumph to the Duke of Anjou, proceeded to Tours, where

Charles IX. received them with many caresses and flattering words. Four

days later, the Parliament of Paris proclaimed the ex-Admiral Coligny a

traitor, condemned him to death, and offered fifty thousand gold crowns

to whomsoever should deliver him up alive. A few days afterwards the

same sum was offered for his head; and the Guises had the proclamation

translated into seven languages, and circulated throughout Europe.

Then came the bloody battle of Moncontour, where eighteen thousand

men under Coligny were beaten, with very heavy loss, by the Duke of

Anjou's army of twenty-five thousand. It began with a long cannonade,

quickly succeeded by a combat at close quarters, in which even the

generals-in-chief were personally engaged. "The Duke of Anjou had

his horse killed under him, but was rescued by d'Aumale; Coligny was

wounded in the face, and lost four teeth; Guise was badly hurt by

a ball in the foot: Mayenne distinguished himself at his brother's

side." After an hour's deadly struggle, the Huguenots were beaten at

all points. There was a terrible massacre of them; three thousand

prisoners were made, and five hundred German horse passed over to the

conquerors. This was a grievous blow for the Protestant party. Coligny,

however, and the princes, shut themselves up in La Rochelle, and had

leisure to look around them and organise their remaining forces, whilst

the Duke of Anjou wasted his time in the siege of some unimportant

places, and the Duke of Guise was laid up with his wound, which was

long of healing. The state of the kingdom of France, exhausted by

these repeated wars, was deplorable. Coligny, bold and active, made

long marches southwards, collecting reinforcements and supplies, and

finally reaching Burgundy, and getting the advantage in an encounter

with the King's army, under Marshal de Cossé, at Arnay le Duc. In

short, he had the road open to Paris. These considerations made Charles

IX. anxious for peace; which, after some negotiation, was concluded

at St Germain-en-Laye, in August 1570, on terms so favourable to the

Huguenots--who, says Montluc, in his _Commentaries_, always had the

best of it when it came to those _diables d'escritures_--that Pope Pius

V. wrote to the Cardinal de Lorraine to express his violent disapproval.

As had more than once already been the case, the return of peace was

quickly followed by the marked diminution of the influence of the

house of Guise. The Duke of Anjou cherished an instinctive hatred and

jealousy of Henry of Lorraine; whilst the Cardinal had incurred the

displeasure of the Queen-mother, who, as well as Charles IX., had

previously been greatly angered by the presumption of the Duke of

Guise in aspiring to the hand of her daughter Margaret. At one time,

so furiously chafed was the King's naturally violent temper by the

pretensions of the Guise party--against whom his brother Anjou lost

no opportunity of irritating him--that he actually resolved on the

immediate death of the young Duke of Guise, who only escaped through

the timidity and indecision of Henry of Angoulême, the King's bastard

brother--commissioned to make an end of him at a hunting party--and

through warnings given him, it is said, by Margaret herself. The

Montmorencys, cousins of the Colignys, seemed to have succeeded to the

influence the Guises had lost: the Marshal and his brother d'Anville

governed the Queen-mother; and so fierce was the animosity between the

rival families, that Guise and Méru, brother of Marshal Montmorency,

openly quarrelled in the King's Chamber, and, on leaving the palace,

exchanged a challenge, whose consequences persons sent expressly by

Charles IX. had great difficulty in averting. In short, during the year

1571, "no more was heard of the Cardinal of Lorraine than if he had

been dead; nor was anything known about the Guises, except that they

had celebrated at Joinville the birth of a son to the Duke," who had

married, in the previous year, Catherine of Cleves, widow of the Prince

de Portien.

The apparent favour of the Admiral de Coligny, the return to Paris

of the Guises, the seeming fusion of the two great parties that

had so long distracted France, were preludes to the massacre of St

Bartholomew. In narrating the strange and important events that

crowded the year 1572, M. de Bouillé lays bare the vile qualities of

Charles IX., his cold-blooded cruelty, his odious treachery, and the

powers of profound dissimulation he had inherited from his mother.

One anecdote, extracted from Fornier's MS. History of the House of

Guise, is extremely characteristic. The King, whilst loading Coligny

with marks of confidence and favour, hinted darkly to the Guises the

existence of some sinister plot, urging them to take patience, because,

as he said to the Duke d'Aumale, _bientôt il verroit quelque bon jeu_.

It happened one day that "the King was alone in his chamber with Henry

of Lorraine, both gaily disposed; the latter had seized a headless

pike, used to shut the upper shutters of the window, and was amusing

Charles IX. by the extraordinary dexterity with which he wielded this

weapon, when Coligny unexpectedly entered. The King felt that the

abrupt interruption of their play, on his appearance, might excite

the Admiral's suspicions. Suddenly, therefore, he feigned violent

displeasure; accused the Duke of having insolently waved the pole

close to his face, and, seizing a boar-spear that stood by his bed,

pursued Guise, who, as if the better to escape, ran, it is said, into

the apartments of Margaret de Valois. Charles snatched the Admiral's

sword to pursue the fugitive; and Coligny, deceived by this well-acted

anger, interceded to obtain the pardon of the heedless young Prince of

Lorraine."

There is no particular novelty in M. de Bouillé's account of the

massacre of St Bartholomew. We cannot compliment him on the guarded

manner in which he condemns his hero for his participation in that

monster murder--an episode that would have sufficed to brand with

eternal infamy a far greater and better man than Henry of Lorraine.

Compelled to admit that the whole direction and combination of the

massacre was intrusted to, and joyfully undertaken by, the Duke of

Guise--that he was privy to and approving of Maurevel's previous

attempt to assassinate Coligny, and that he afterwards stood under

the Admiral's window whilst the Wurtemburger Besme, and others of

his creatures, stabbed the wounded Protestant as he rose defenceless

from his couch--M. de Bouillé informs us that, on quitting the place

of his enemy's murder, whilst the most barbarous scenes were on all

sides enacting--the consequence of the completeness and skill of his

own preparations--Guise was _seized with compassion_, and had "the

good thought to save many innocent victims, women, children, and even

men," by sheltering them in his hotel. On the other hand, "those whom

the Prince considered as factious, or as adherents of such--in a word,

his political adversaries rather than heretics--found little pity at

his hands." And he was proceeding "to carry death into the faubourg St

Germain, and to seek there Montgomery, the Vidame de Chartres, and a

hundred Protestant gentlemen whom prudence had prevented from lodging

near the Admiral." The compassionate intentions of Guise towards these

five score Huguenots and "political adversaries," could be so little

doubtful, that it was certainly most fortunate for them that a friend

swam the Seine and gave them warning, whilst a mistake about keys

delayed the Duke's passage through the gate of Bussy. They escaped,

pursued to some distance from Paris by Guise and his escort. On his

return, the massacre was at its height. "Less pitiless than any of the

other Catholic chiefs, he had opened in his own dwelling an asylum

to more than a hundred Protestant gentlemen, _of whom he thought he

should be able afterwards to make partisans_." His compassion, then,

had not the merit of disinterestedness. Similar selfish considerations

induced others of the assassins to rescue others of the doomed. It will

be remembered, that Ambrose Paré found shelter and protection in the

palace, from whose windows Charles IX., arquebuse in hand, is said to

have amused himself by picking off the wretched Protestants, as they

scudded through the streets with the blood-hounds at their heels. But

all the skill of the Huguenot leech was insufficient, a few months

later, to preserve that perfidious and cruel monarch from a death whose

strange and horrible character was considered by many to be a token of

God's displeasure at the oceans of blood he had so inhumanly caused

to flow. Charles IX. was preceded and followed to the grave, at short

intervals, by an active sharer in the massacre, the Duke of Aumale,

and by one of its most vehement instigators and approvers, Charles,

Cardinal of Lorraine, both uncles of the Duke, and notable members of

the house of Guise. The change of religion of Henry of Navarre and of

the young Prince of Condé, the siege of Rochelle, the conclusion of

peace with the Protestants, and the accession of Henry III. to the

throne of France, are the other important events that bring us to the

end of the second volume of M. de Bouillé's interesting history.

A WILD-FLOWER GARLAND. BY DELTA.

THE DAISY.

I.

The Daisy blossoms on the rocks,

Amid the purple heath;

It blossoms on the river's banks,

That thrids the glens beneath:

The eagle, at his pride of place,

Beholds it by his nest;

And, in the mead, it cushions soft

The lark's descending breast.

II.

Before the cuckoo, earliest spring

Its silver circlet knows,

When greening buds begin to swell,

And zephyr melts the snows;

And, when December's breezes howl

Along the moorlands bare,

And only blooms the Christmas rose,

The Daisy still is there!

III.

Samaritan of flowers! to it

All races are alike,

The Switzer on his glacier height,--

The Dutchman by his dyke,--

The seal-skin vested Esquimaux,

Begirt with icy seas,--

And, underneath his burning noon,

The parasol'd Chinese.

IV.

The emigrant on distant shore,

Mid scenes and faces strange,

Beholds it flowering in the sward,

Where'er his footsteps range;

And when his yearning, home-sick heart

Would bow to its despair,

It reads his eye a lesson sage--

That God is everywhere!

V.

Stars are the Daisies that begem

The blue fields of the sky,

Beheld by all, and everywhere,

Bright prototypes on high:--

Bloom on, then, unpretending flowers!

And to the waverer be

An emblem of St Paul's content,

St Stephen's constancy.

THE WHITE ROSE.

I.

Rose of the desert! thou art to me

An emblem of stainless purity,--

Of those who, keeping their garments white,

Walk on through life with steps aright.

II.

Thy fragrance breathes of the fields above,

Whose soil and air are faith and love;

And where, by the murmur of silver springs,

The Cherubim fold their snow-white wings;--

III.

Where those who were severed re-meet in joy,

Which death can never more destroy;

Where scenes without, and where souls within,

Are blanched from taint and touch of sin;--

IV.

Where speech is music, and breath is balm;

And broods an everlasting calm;

And flowers wither not, as in worlds like this;

And hope is swallowed in perfect bliss;--

V.

Where all is peaceful, for all is pure;

And all is lovely; and all endure;

And day is endless, and ever bright;

And no more sea is, and no more night;--

VI.

Where round the throne, in hues like thine,

The raiments of the ransom'd shine;

And o'er each brow a halo glows

Of glory, like the pure White Rose!

THE SWEET BRIAR.

I.

The Sweet Briar flowering,

With boughs embowering,

Beside the willow-tufted stream,

In its soft, red bloom,

And its wild perfume,

Brings back the past like a sunny dream!

II.

Methinks, in childhood,

Beside the wildwood

I lie, and listen the blackbird's song,

Mid the evening calm,

As the Sweet Briar's balm

On the gentle west wind breathes along--

III.

To speak of meadows,

And palm-tree shadows,

And bee-hive cones, and a thymy hill,

And greenwood mazes,

And greensward daisies,

And a foamy stream, and a clacking mill.

IV.

Still the heart rejoices,

At the happy voices

Of children, singing amid their play;

While swallows twittering,

And waters glittering,

Make earth an Eden at close of day.

V.

In sequestered places,

Departed faces,

Return and smile as of yore they smiled;

When, with trifles blest,

Each buoyant breast

Held the trusting heart of a little child.

VI.

The future never

Again can ever

The perished gifts of the past restore,

Nor, to thee or me,

Can the wild flowers be

What the Briar was then--oh never more!

THE WALL-FLOWER.

I.

The Wall-flower--the Wall-flower,

How beautiful it blooms!

It gleams above the ruined tower,

Like sunlight over tombs;

It sheds a halo of repose

Around the wrecks of time.

To beauty give the flaunting rose,

The Wall-flower is sublime.

II.

Flower of the solitary place!

Gray ruin's golden crown,

That lendest melancholy grace

To haunts of old renown;

Thou mantlest o'er the battlement,

By strife or storm decayed;

And fillest up each envious rent

Time's canker-tooth hath made.

III.

Thy roots outspread the ramparts o'er,

Where, in war's stormy day,

Percy or Douglas ranged of yore

Their ranks in grim array;

The clangour of the field is fled,

The beacon on the hill

No more through midnight blazes red,

But thou art blooming still!

IV.

Whither hath fled the choral band

That filled the Abbey's nave?

Yon dark sepulchral yew-trees stand

O'er many a level grave.

In the belfry's crevices, the dove

Her young brood nurseth well,

While thou, lone flower! dost shed above

A sweet decaying smell.

V.

In the season of the tulip-cup

When blossoms clothe the trees,

How sweet to throw the lattice up,

And scent thee on the breeze;

The butterfly is then abroad,

The bee is on the wing,

And on the hawthorn by the road

The linnets sit and sing.

VI.

Sweet Wall-flower--sweet Wall-flower!

Thou conjurest up to me,

Full many a soft and sunny hour

Of boyhood's thoughtless glee;

When joy from out the daisies grew,

In woodland pastures green,

And summer skies were far more blue,

Than since they e'er have been.

VII.

Now autumn's pensive voice is heard

Amid the yellow bowers,

The robin is the regal bird,

And thou the queen of flowers!

He sings on the laburnum trees,

Amid the twilight dim,

And Araby ne'er gave the breeze

Such scents, as thou to him.

VIII.

Rich is the pink, the lily gay,

The rose is summer's guest;

Bland are thy charms when these decay,

Of flowers--first, last, and best!

There may be gaudier on the bower,

And statelier on the tree,

But Wall-flower--loved Wall-flower,

Thou art the flower for me!

THE MASQUERADE OF FREEDOM.

I.

When Freedom first appeared beneath,

Right simple was the garb she wore:

Her brows were circled with a wreath

Such as the Grecian victors bore:

Her vesture all of spotless white,

Her aspect stately and serene;

And so she moved in all men's sight

As lovely as a Maiden Queen.

II.

And queenlike, long she ruled the throng,

As ancient records truly tell;

Their strength she took not from the strong,

But taught them how to use it well.

Her presence graced the peasant's floor

As freely as the noble's hall:

And aye the humbler was the door,

The still more welcome was her call.

III.

But simple manners rarely range

Beyond the simpler ages' ken:

And e'en the Virtues sometimes change

Their vesture and their looks, like men.

Pride, noble once, grows close and vain,

And Honour stoops to vulgar things,

And old Obedience slacks the rein,

And murmurs at the rule of kings.

IV.

So Freedom, like her sisters too,

Has felt the impulse of the time,

Has changed her garments' blameless hue,

And donn'd the colours dear to crime

First in a Phrygian cap she stalked,

And bore within her grasp the spear;

And ever, when abroad she walk'd,

Men knew Revenge was following near.

V.

She moves again--The death-drums roll,

The frantic mobs their chorus raise,

The thunder of the Carmagnole--

The war-chant of the Marseillaise'

Red run the streets with blameless blood--

The guillotine comes clanking down--

And Freedom, in her drunken mood,

Can witness all without a frown.

VI.