“I crave your Majesty’s pardon, but I cannot do it,” was De la Forêt’s instant reply. “I have sworn that I will lift my sword in one cause only, and to that I must stand. And more--the widow of my dead chief, Gabriel de Montgomery, is set down in this land unsheltered and alone. I have sworn to one who loves her, and for my dead chief’s sake, that I will serve her and be near her until better days be come and she may return in quietness to France. In exile we few stricken folk must stand together, your august Majesty.” Elizabeth’s eye flashed up. She was impatient of refusal of her favor. She was also a woman, and that De la Forêt should flaunt his devotion to another woman was little to her liking. The woman in her, which had never been blessed with a noble love, was roused. The sourness of a childless, uncompanionable life was stronger for the moment than her strong mind and sense. “Monsieur has sworn this, and monsieur has sworn that,” she said, petulantly--“and to one who loveth a lady, and for a cause--tut! tut! tut!--” Suddenly a kind of intriguing laugh leaped into her eye, and she turned to Leicester and whispered in his ear. Leicester frowned, then smiled, and glanced up and down De la Forêt’s figure impertinently. “See, Monsieur de la Forêt,” she added, “since you will not fight, you shall preach. A priest you came into my kingdom, and a priest you shall remain; but you shall preach good English doctrine and no Popish folly.” De la Forêt started, then composed himself, and before he had time to reply Elizabeth continued: “Partly for your own sake am I thus gracious, for as a preacher of the Word I have not need to give you up, according to agreement with our brother of France. As a rebel and conspirator I were bound to do so, unless you were an officer of my army. The Seigneur of Rozel has spoken for you, and the Comtesse de Montgomery has written a pleading letter. Also I have from another source a tearful prayer--the ink is scare dry upon it--which has been of service to you. But I myself have chosen this way of escape for you. Prove yourself worthy and all may be well--but prove yourself you shall. You have prepared your own brine, monsieur; in it you shall pickle.” She smiled a sour smile, for she was piqued, and added: “Do you think I will have you here squiring of distressed dames save as a priest? You shall hence to Madame of Montgomery as her faithful chaplain, once I have heard you preach and know your doctrine.” Leicester almost laughed outright in the young man’s face now, for he had no thought that De la Forêt would accept, and refusal meant the exile’s doom. It seemed fantastic that this noble gentleman, this very type of the perfect soldier, with the brown face of a Romany and an athletic valor of body, should become a preacher even in necessity.