Perhaps the longest five minutes of M. de la Forêt’s life were those in which he waited the coming of the Queen on that Trinity Sunday which was to decide his fate. When he saw Elizabeth enter the chapel his eyes swam, till the sight of them was lost in the blur of color made by the motions of gorgeously apparelled courtiers and the people of the household. When the Queen had taken her seat and all was quiet, he struggled with himself to put on such a front of simple boldness as he would wear upon day of battle. The sword the Queen had given him was at his side, and his garb was still that of a gentleman, not of a Huguenot minister such as Elizabeth in her grim humor, and to satisfy her bond with France, would make of him this day. The brown of his face had paled in the weeks spent in the palace and in waiting for this hour; anxiety had toned the ruddy vigor of his bearing; but his figure was the figure of a soldier and his hand that of a strong man. He shook a little as he bowed to her Majesty, but that passed, and when at last his eye met that of the Duke’s Daughter he grew steady; for she gave him, as plainly as though her tongue spoke, a message from Angèle. Angèle herself he did not see--she was kneeling in an obscure corner, her father’s hand in hers, all the passion of her life pouring out in prayer. De la Forêt drew himself up with an iron will. No nobler figure of a man ever essayed to preach the Word, and so Elizabeth thought; and she repented of the bitter humor which had set this trial as his chance of life in England and his freedom from the hand of Catherine. The man bulked larger in her eyes than he had ever done, and she struggled with herself to keep the vow she had made to the Duke’s Daughter the night that Angèle had been found in De la Forêt’s rooms. He had been the immediate cause, fated or accidental, of the destined breach between Leicester and herself; he had played a significant part in her own life. Glancing at her courtiers, she saw none that might compare with him, the form and being of calm boldness and courage. She sighed she knew scarce why. When De la Forêt first opened his mouth and essayed to call the worshippers to prayer no words came forth--only a dry whisper. Some ladies simpered, and more than one courtier laughed silently. Michel saw, and his face flamed up. But he laid a hand on himself, and a moment afterwards his voice came forth, clear, musical, and resonant, speaking simple words, direct and unlacquered sentences, passionately earnest withal. He stilled the people to a unison of sentiment, none the less interested and absorbed because it was known that he had been the cause of the great breach between the Queen and the favorite. Ere he had spoken far, flippant gallants had ceased to flutter handkerchiefs, to idly move their swords upon the floor. [Illustration: “‘AND WHAT MATTER WHICH IT IS WE WIELD’”]