“Who is it that speaks for her so warmly?” said the queen, still pale and trembling, but assuming something of her royal dignity. “A man of the people, your highness, and her friend.” “But—but surely, you are not the person who conquered that cruel beast? The face is like——” She turned and cast a shuddering glance where the brute, that had so terrified her, lay panting out its rage. The man laughed a little scornfully. “Oh! it was nothing; I only held her back till some one flung me a rope from the window; besides, I had help to bind the brute, a young fellow who ought to belong to the people, for they love bravery in lord or workman.” “I saw him, your highness. It was Richelieu,” whispered Elizabeth. The conversation was drifting away from the subject which lay so close to Marguerite’s heart. She looked around, almost in despair. Elizabeth, with that keen delicacy which seems like intuition, saw this, and touched the queen’s arm. “She is anxious—she suffers.” “But Dame Tillery has no husband in the Bastille, that her daughter should crave freedom for. I do not understand.” “Madame, it is a mistake; I am not the daughter of this good woman. In her kindness she brought me here, without knowing how urgent my business was.” “Then tell me whose daughter you are, that I may better understand.” “My father, your highness, was Dr. Gosner.” The queen uttered a sudden cry, and retreated a step, as if the name had inflicted a pang. “Ah! I have heard the name. It was one which made even my imperial mother tremble.” “But that could not have been his fault; he was good, and gentle as any child, I have heard my mother say,” pleaded Marguerite. “No, child, it was not his fault—and God forbid that it should be our misfortune. Dr. Gosner! It is years since I have heard that name. We thought him dead.” “In a living tomb; but not dead, your highness.” “But how came he in the Bastille?” “That I do not know.” “How long has he been there?” “Since the year of the old king’s death.” “Heavens! and we not know; but it shall be remedied.” Marguerite clasped her hands, and her eyes filled with tears. “You will pardon him? You will free him?” Marie Antoinette smiled; she was now all the queen. With a wave of her hand she had kept the little crowd of her friends back, while this dialogue was going on. It was now sunset; a red glow was kindling up the landscape, and the last slanting beams fell across the group, revealing each figure clearly, like light thrown across a picture. “I promise,” said the queen, extending her hand: “your father shall be set free. It thrills me with horror to think of him in a prison.” Marguerite sunk upon her knees, and kissed the hand extended so graciously. Her beautiful face was aglow with gratitude; her lips quivered with emotions they would never have the power to express. “Oh! if I could thank your highness.” “But you cannot, and must not. It is I who should give thanks for a life saved.”