On one of these spring afternoons of 1712, Celia stood looking out of her bedroom window. They were in Lady Ingram's country-house at St. Germain-en-Laye. She was very curious, and yet almost afraid, to see the Palace--that house in which, as she knew, he dwelt whom Squire Passmore called the Pretender, and Lady Ingram the King. Celia herself had owned to no politics at all. She found it quite work enough to steer between her religious Scyllas and Charybdises, without setting up political ones. In all things not absolutely wrong, she was resolved meekly to submit to Lady Ingram, so that her step-mother might have no just cause for dissatisfaction with her in respect to those few points which to her were really matters of conscience. When Patient came quietly in with an armful of the linen which she was unpacking and putting away, Celia said-- "Patient, do you know where the _château_ is?" "The Pretender dwells over yonder, Madam," answered Patient, pointing in the direction which she wished to indicate. "So you call him the Pretender!" observed Celia, smilingly. "I was taught, Madam, when a wean, that the people should have nought to do with an uncovenanted King. Moreover, the reign of His Highness the Lord Protector being so much better for the faith, hath perhaps turned me a little against this one and all his." Celia laughed softly to herself. What would Squire Passmore have said, from whose lips the gentleman so respectfully designated by Patient was, at the gentlest, "that scoundrel Oliver"? She began to wonder how many more phases of political feeling she should find. "I ask your pardon if I have grieved you, Madam," said Patient, when Celia remained silent, "I would not willingly do that. Sir Edward, I know, was strong for King James, and would doubtless have been so for his son: and 'tis most like you will feel with your father. Only we were taught otherwise. When King James was driven out of London, I heard that, the Sabbath after, in Scotland, a certain godly minister did discourse from that word--'And death shall be chosen rather than life by all the residue of them that remain of this evil family, which remain in all the places whither I have driven them, saith the Lord of hosts.'"[15] "I think that was rather too strong, Patient," said Celia, doubtfully. "Perchance so, Madam. Indeed, I know there be some that do think King Charles the First safe--in Heaven, I mean. God grant it! I only know that he was a deceitful man, and an uncovenanted King." "I have always heard him called a martyr, Patient." "He was not _that_!" said Patient, less calmly than usual. "At least, not if a martyr be a witness for the Lord's truth. Did he not try to force Prelacy upon Scotland? Call such a man a martyr! A martyr to Prelacy, forsooth! a martyr to deceit, and broken faith, and cruel oppression! We were the martyrs, Madam." And Patient shut a drawer wrathfully, for her.