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“To me, Poitiers! Servants of the Comte de Saint-Vallier, here! Help! help!”

And the Comte Aymar de Poitiers, sire de Saint-Vallier, attempted to draw his sword and clear a space around him. But he found himself surrounded and pressed upon by forty or fifty gentlemen whom it would be dangerous to wound. Several among them, especially those of the highest rank, answered him with jests as they dragged him along the cloisters.

With the rapidity of lightning the abductor carried the countess into an open chapel and seated her behind the confessional on a wooden bench. By the light of the tapers burning before the saint to whom the chapel was dedicated, they looked at each other for a moment in silence, clasping hands, and amazed at their own audacity. The countess had not the cruel courage to reproach the young man for the boldness to which they owed this perilous and only instant of happiness.

“Will you fly with me into the adjoining States?” said the young man, eagerly. “Two English horses are awaiting us close by, able to do thirty leagues at a stretch.”

“Ah!” she cried, softly, “in what corner of the world could you hide a daughter of King Louis XI.?”

“True,” replied the young man, silenced by a difficulty he had not foreseen.

“Why did you tear me from my husband?” she asked in a sort of terror.

“Alas!” said her lover, “I did not reckon on the trouble I should feel in being near you, in hearing you speak to me. I have made plans,–two or three plans,–and now that I see you all seems accomplished.”

“But I am lost!” said the countess.

“We are saved!” the young man cried in the blind enthusiasm of his love. “Listen to me carefully!”

“This will cost me my life!” she said, letting the tears that rolled in her eyes flow down her cheeks. “The count will kill me,–to-night, perhaps! But go to the king; tell him the tortures that his daughter has endured these five years. He loved me well when I was little; he called me ‘Marie-full-of-grace,’ because I was ugly. Ah! if he knew the man to whom he gave me, his anger would be terrible. I have not dared complain, out of pity for the count. Besides, how could I reach the king? My confessor himself is a spy of Saint-Vallier. That is why I have consented to this guilty meeting, to obtain a defender,–some one to tell the truth to the king. Can I rely on– Oh!” she cried, turning pale and interrupting herself, “here comes the page!”

The poor countess put her hands before her face as if to veil it.

“Fear nothing,” said the young seigneur, “he is won! You can safely trust him; he belongs to me. When the count contrives to return for you he will warn us of his coming. In the confessional,” he added, in a low voice, “is a priest, a friend of mine, who will tell him that he drew you for safety out of the crowd, and placed you under his own protection in this chapel. Therefore, everything is arranged to deceive him.”

At these words the tears of the poor woman stopped, but an expression of sadness settled down on her face.

“No one can deceive him,” she said. “To-night he will know all. Save me from his blows! Go to Plessis, see the king, tell him–” she hesitated; then, some dreadful recollection giving her courage to confess the secrets of her marriage, she added: “Yes, tell him that to master me the count bleeds me in both arms–to exhaust me. Tell him that my husband drags me about by the hair of my head. Say that I am a prisoner; that–“

Her heart swelled, sobs choked her throat, tears fell from her eyes. In her agitation she allowed the young man, who was muttering broken words, to kiss her hands.

“Poor darling! no one can speak to the king. Though my uncle is grand-master of his archers, I could not gain admission to Plessis. My dear lady! my beautiful sovereign! oh, how she has suffered! Marie, let yourself say but two words, or we are lost!”