"But it is said, that the enemy of the righteous shall perish from the earth," said her grandmother sternly; "it is not I condemn or kill him. If it be the will of God that his cause of error cease, let him go forth and die." "If he die, mother," exclaimed Jocelyne with energy, "I shall die too. I have given him my heart, my life, my soul--punish me as you will--trample me at your feet. But I love him, mother; and, if you drive him forth to be hunted by his enemies to the death, your child will not survive it." Alayn had turned away in bitterness of heart, and the old Huguenot woman, although giving way more and more to that excitement, which, at times, fully troubled her reason, only wrung her hands, as if moved by the address of the agitated girl. "Stay! stay, Monseigneur," continued Jocelyne, as La Mole again pressed her hand and turned to depart. "She relents--she has a kind heart; and she would not, surely, deliver up the guest who begs shelter at her threshold, into the hands of those who seek to capture and to kill him." "Let me go forth, Jocelyne! farewell!" repeated La Mole. "Mother!" again commenced the unhappy girl, throwing herself down to clasp the knees of her grandmother, who, overcome by the violence of her feelings, had sunk back again into her chair. "Mother! would your husband, or your son, have driven even their deadliest enemy from their door?" "Speak not of my son, girl; or you will drive me mad!" cried Perrotte, clasping her hands before her face. Jocelyne sprang up with a look of despair, and returned to detain once more La Mole. As they thus stood, and before the old woman had again stirred, or Alayn interfered, a rumour from the street formed by the bridge, caught the ear of the excited girl. "What is that?" she exclaimed, starting in alarm. "The agents of the Queen-mother sent in my pursuit, probably," replied La Mole coolly, and disengaging himself from the convulsive embrace of Jocelyne. "How they have tracked me, I know not. So be it, then. I had hoped for the sake of others to avoid their hands; but I am prepared to meet my fate." "No, no," screamed Jocelyne. "It cannot be! Mother--mother, would you see him made a prisoner in your own house--murdered, perhaps, before your very face!" Alayn moved towards the door; and the girl sprang to intercept him. "Would you be so base? Would you have me hate you?" cried the poor girl in despair, to her cousin. Many steps were now heard ascending the lower stair. The old woman, who trembled in every limb, stirred not from her chair; but, removing one hand from her face, she stretched it out towards a corner of the room. "Ah! I understand you, mother," exclaimed Jocelyne. "That secret closet where our books of religion are deposited, where our old priest, during the massacre, was hid!" "Whilst my son perished--a victim--a martyr!" groaned the old woman, fearfully agitated.