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crimsoned as he spoke; "a D'Aubigny cannot stoop to hide himself." But, for the first time, her small white hand was laid upon his arm; quietly she drew him after her, and how could he choose but yield to the gentle impulse?

Down, down they went, the maiden in advance, and the young knight guided by her white and waving garments, which shone with flickering light through the gloom, assisted somewhat by various chinks in the old pillar. But when they reached the foot of the staircase they were in total darkness.— "You must even take my hand and submit to a woman's guidance for once," said Diana; "the way is somewhat intricate, but I have been used to traverse it from childhood." What did Theodore care that the way was dark and intricate? He would have been well content, there to wander with his sweet guide for ever. At last they emerged from their subterraneous passage, and found themselves in what the old knight had called the hidden bower; and in good truth it deserved its name, for it had no other approach than the one our young pilgrims had just traversed. The Chateau de Talcy had been built in stormy times, when every man was his own defender, and this bower had served as a hiding-place to more than one of its masters. The secret of its entrance was kept sacredly by the owners of the mansion, and known to them alone. Let it not be supposed that because hidden, it was enveloped in gloom. Oh no, the free air of heaven played round about it, and the sweet light of heaven glowed gloriously through its rich painted windows. It stood in the midst of a labyrinth, so artfully constructed that strangers might wander

therein for hours, and suspect not its existence. Of late years it had been devoted only to the amusement of the daughter of the house; and the fair Diana, who naturally loved silence and seclusion, had spared no pains to embellish it. Great therefore was the young knight's surprise to see, when he entered, that the light, mellowed as it passed through the stained glass; fell on pictures of surpassing beauty,-on statues of Parian marble, and on those fairest of created things that so sweetly attest the presence of woman,-flowers, lovely flowers! But one thing in the bower gave Theodore more pleasure than all these. A lute lay on the table, and by it a volume, a manuscript volume of music and songs, his own songs, his own music, which Diana had received with an air so indifferent, that almost he had repented having made the offering. She had then been occupied by him; her lips had breathed forth the words of his heart, and her fingers had touched the chords which he had strung together.

Theodore d'Aubigny forgot at that moment that he was one of a fallen and proscribed party,―a Hugonot who had but lately escaped the bloody massacre of St. Bartholomew's day,-that even then his pursuers were seeking him. He forgot every thing but the sweet face before him, which blushed and smiled and half turned away, and knew not how to hide its deep confusion when Theodore took up the lute, and in those low deep tones which go directly to the heart, sung the song at which the page was opened, and which, he rightly judged, was the very last the lady herself had warbled forth.

SONG.

Dear to the soldier's heart

Are the tented field and battle plain :
But far more sweet is the hope to meet—
The battle done and the glory won-

With his own true love again,

And never more to part-never, oh never!

Sweet to the soldier's ear

Are the rolling drum and the shrill war cry ;
But sweeter than all, at the twilight fall,

In garden lone, is the whispered tone

Of his true love's faintest sigh,

As she draws her dear one near-nearer, oh nearer !

Bright to the soldier's eye

Are the colors that flutter o'er him;

But far more bright in the warrior's sight

Is the lowliest flower of his cottage bower,
When his true love stands before him,
With tear and blush and sigh,-lovely, oh lovely!

And soft as silent night

Is the soldier's sleep 'neath the cloudy sky;

But softer to him is the eye all dim,
And the golden hair, and the cheek so fair
Of the vision that wanders by

His worn and weary sight,— softly, oh softly!

The latter part of Theodore's song had more hearers than had its commencement. Both he and Diana started when the old knight spoke: "A wise and a witty cavalier, truly! to be touching lutes and singing idle songs, when he deems his very life in peril. Come, mad sir, a young guide led you hither; but

you must be content with an old one to lead you back again; and you, maiden, stay here awhile; we have that to speak of that is not meet for a lady's ear."

"One word, only one," whispered Diana, as she sprung forward; "are they gone, quite gone?"-We will suppose that her father's answer was satisfactory, for she turned round with a laughing eye and glowing cheek, and said gaily, "Fare you well for a short time, my father; I will do your bidding; and fare you well, sir knight, my somewhile guest-when next you sing soft songs to lady lone in hidden bower, fix your eye on the door, and not on the lady's face, if you will not other listener than herself."

Silently Theodore followed De Talcy. Neither spoke until they reached the great dining-hall, and then De Talcy said, "We were mistaken in our fears; the men came not hither to seek your life; on the contrary, they came to declare that hostilities have ceased, that the persecuted Hugonots may now emerge from their hiding places. Theodore answered, "I thank you for these tidings; but had they not arrived, I must have torn myself from this too happy retreat. Seigneur De Talcy, you have saved my life; for four months you have lodged me in your castle, at the hazard of your own; I will not repay you with base ingratitude. For four months I have seen daily your young daughter, and she is dearer to me than life; but I will not seek to steal her from you, neither will I link her fate to one whose only fortune is his sword. I will go to Rochelle this very day."

"Have you never," asked the old man, with a scrutinizing look,-" tell me; have you never spoken of love to my child?"

Never, on the honour of a knight," was the quick reply.

"Then,” replied De Talcy, "I will tell you, young d'Aubigny, that so much I love and honour your candour, that I will speedily put you in the way to gain wealth, and her who is dearer to you than wealth. You shewed me, but yesterday, some papers in an old ebon cabinet relative to the enterprise of Amboise, and attached to one of them is the seal of the Chancellor l'Hopital. That seal and that paper would work his ruin. Let him know that they are in your possession, and if he refuse to give you an ample gratuity, offer them to his enemies. I will stake my life that you might obtain from them, at least, twenty thousand crowns."

He

"Think you so ?" said Theodore, as he arose and left the room. He was absent a long time. Let us not suppose that he wavered in his duty. Oh no! his true heart could not falter. Let us rather suppose that he was praying, in that sad hour, for strength to enable him to conquer the greatest temptation that had ever yet been presented to him. re-entered the hall with a pale cheek and troubled brow. Diana was there. She leaned over her embroidery frame, and the light of the lamp falling straight on her face, softly shewed its fair and faultless outline. Her bright golden hair too, damp with the evening air, was bound, unbraided round her high Grecian forehead, and gave a Madonna-like aspect to her countenance, which suited better Theodore's present taste, than its usual light and laughing aspect. Her eyes were cast down, and he thought, too, dimmed by tears. She had never seemed so fair to his

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