“I swear before God that this is the truth,” replies the monk, again crossing himself; “and my God is not that false one worshipped by the Huguenot dogs under Henry of Navarre, but the true God of the Holy Catholic Church. Let the King trust to his loyal Catholic subjects, and beware of the heretics that are in his council and amongst his troops.” And the monk scowls around. His eyes meet those of Osman the astrologer, which are fixed on him with the intensity of a cat ready to spring. Jacques Clément trembles. For an instant his courage forsakes him and he turns pale. “Well, father,” says D’Auvergne, laughing, “you are true to your trade--a steady Catholic. We understand; you can smell a heretic a mile off, I’ll be sworn.” The monk makes no reply, and to avoid further discussion turns to a table on which supper is spread, and sitting down, begins to eat. The Attorney-General de la Guesle having been told of the arrival of a mysterious monk, enters the room and confirms what he had said of their meeting outside the gates of Paris. The Comte d’Auvergne, after scrutinising Jacques Clément for some minutes, turns aside to Monsieur de la Guesle, and whispers-- “I do not know why, but I have a strange suspicion of that fellow. All he says seems fair enough and his papers are properly signed; but there is something about his dark, sinister face and surly answers that alarms me.” Osman, seeing them converse apart, advances eagerly from the bottom of the room, and addresses them in a low voice, “If monseigneur will only listen to me, he will not admit this monk within a hundred miles of his Majesty. The stars, Count, are----” “Confound the stars!” interrupts Monsieur de la Guesle. “Do you take us for a parcel of fools? Go prate elsewhere.” The noblemen seat themselves at the upper end of the supper-table. The Comte d’Auvergne, Monsieur de la Guesle, and other gentlemen are served by an old valet who, after pouring out the wine all round, stands behind the chair of his master, the Count. His eyes are fixed on Jacques Clément, who had drawn forth from the folds of his sleeve a large dagger with which he cuts up his meat. “May it please monseigneur,” the valet whispers into the Count’s ear, “the reverend father knows how to travel in these stormy times. He has not forgotten to bring a goodly dagger with him; though perhaps the breviary, being less useful, is forgotten.” “Not so, brother,” answers the monk who, overhearing his whisper, draws out a missal from his bosom; “I never travel without the one and the other--defences for the body and the soul--whichever may most need it.” But the garrulous old servant, once set talking, is not to be silenced. He begins a long account, in a low voice, addressed to the Count, of how the monk, on arriving, had entertained him and his fellows in the courtyard with a history of the death of Holofernes the tyrant, by the hands of a Jewish maiden Judith, the saviour of her country.