No help came. The cause of alarm was too serious. Some newly-purchased cow, selected for the wildness of her beauty, suddenly darted from its covert in the Park, and careering like a mad creature across the lawn, bore furiously down upon the group of fancy workers. With her eyes on fire, and her head tossing savagely, she plunged through the group of milkers, scattering them as she went—turned suddenly, leveled her sharp horns, and made a leap at the queen, whose shrieks of terror increased the animal’s fury. CHAPTER XXII. THE QUEEN’S PERIL. That instant a young girl, pale as death, sprang before the queen, her white lips apart, her eyes burning with heroism and terror. With both arms she flung up the folds of her scarlet shawl, thus maddening the creature afresh in a wild effort to drive her back. For one moment the vicious animal shook her fierce head, veered, turned again, and gathered up her limbs for a great leap forward. But as she made the plunge, and the leveled horns almost touched the girl, a man sprung upon the beast, seized her by both horns, and with the strength of a giant, bore her head down, even forcing her back until her fore hoofs were lifted from the ground. That instant Marie Antoinette fell upon her knees, and flung her arms around the brave girl, who had leaped in between her and death, clinging to her in wild gratitude. “Who is it? who is it that flings her life down to save mine?” Marguerite turned her white face to the queen, and answered with a single sentence, “Thank God, and the mother of God!” Still the queen clung to her. Even then, she did not feel entirely safe; though the animal which had assailed her was lying upon its side, panting for breath, tethered head and hoof, and bellowing fiercely under the pain of her sudden bondage, while her conqueror stood with one foot on her panting side, tightening the thongs that held her down. “Sister! sister! Are you safe? are you safe?” It was Elizabeth, the king’s sister, one of the sweetest women that ever drew breath. In all the terror of her flight, she had come back to learn of the queen’s welfare. “Yes; thanks to this brave girl,” said Marie Antoinette. “Had the beast kept on she would have been trampled down first.” “How can we thank her, sister?” said Elizabeth, turning her grateful face on the girl. “What can we do in return for this brave act?” “It was not brave. I did not think—there was no time. Pray, pray do not thank me so much! It will make a coward of me; I shall not dare ask anything—not even _his_ life. Forgive me, forgive me! I did not know what I was doing.” “If you are grateful, lady, give her the thing she asks for. Give liberty and life to her father, who has been years on years in the torments of the Bastille. That is what she came here to implore at your hands.”