The shout of merry voices was heard from the court-yard in the interior of the palace. The gay, richly dressed pages of his eminence, whose turn of duty had terminated or not arrived, were amusing themselves in the youthful sports practised in the household of princes. Personal rencontres and duelling were such frequent occurrences, that proficiency in the use of the rapier was an indispensable accomplishment. Marguerite, venturing to the window, became sensibly amused and interested by the adroitness of a youth, who, challenging all his compeers successively with the foil, remained victor. Cap and mantle thrown aside, his attitude of defence displayed to advantage a tall symmetrical form—the long curling hair falling on the shoulders bespoke a very youthful age, but the compressed lip, and stern, fiery eye bent on the adversary, belonged to manhood. Without an equal, he retired from the arena to become a spectator of the skill of companions more equally matched. Marguerite continued at the window, till of a sudden, being aware that she was herself the object of the youth’s regard, she withdrew in confusion. There was not much to interest within the chamber. A map of France, and several battle-pieces, sadly out of perspective, helped to while away the time. Looking closely over Limousin, endeavoring to find the barren waste denominated De Pontis—without hearing footstep, or other notice of a stranger’s approach, an arm encircled her waist, and the dark eye of the page was close to her own. “Is there nothing”—said the intruder—“more amusing to a lady in the _Palais-Cardinal_ than poring over a mouldy map? Well! if such be the taste of Mademoiselle, may I not be her preceptor? I am accounted an excellent mathematician!” Marguerite had been surprised so suddenly as to be for the moment bereft of speech. Springing from his grasp, her eyes flashing indignation, she flew to the door. The page perceiving the intention, had barely time to place his hand on the latch, and the foiled maiden dreading close contact with the insolent intruder, retreated a few paces, threatening an appeal to the Cardinal Richelieu. “Mademoiselle has more power over me than his eminence,” said the page, half smiling. “Then prove it by allowing me to quit the apartment without suffering further insolence,” exclaimed the damsel firmly. “It is a hard command—and insolence is a harsh term,” said the youth, thoughtfully, “but I deserve it! Believe me, Mademoiselle, when I say how much I was deceived in the quality of her whom I approached so foolishly—we are apt to abuse the license of—” “License!” exclaimed Marguerite, still trembling with vexation and anger, “meet behavior for a cardinal’s palace—but make way, sir, and you shall hear no further of it.”