On the afternoon of the day when Palissy’s abstraction from Saintes was plotted, Victor was at his customary post beside his friend, who remained quite composed and free from anxiety on his own account. “Be not so anxious,” he said, endeavouring to soothe the fears he did not share; “I am, at all events, secure from further harm, since the power is not in the hands of these judges. No thanks, indeed, to them; they fear to lose some morsel of benefice which they possess, and consequently go hand in hand with my sanguinary enemies. It is certain I can but take the blame of what has befallen me to my own account. Jesus Christ has left us a counsel, written in the 7th chapter of St. Matthew, by which he forbids us to scatter pearls before the swine, lest, turning upon us, they rend us. If I had obeyed this injunction, I should not now have been suffering, and at the mercy of those who, though they want the power, have undoubtedly the will to bring me to destruction as a malefactor.” Just at that moment the jailer entered, desiring a man who followed him to bring in a box, which they placed in a corner of the room. “You must be going soon,” said he, addressing Victor; “I have some business in hand, and must lock up doors early to-night. Your friend can stay, however,” he added, casting a glance at Palissy, which seemed to the ever observant Victor to have a shade of compassion in it, “for half an hour longer if you wish it.” So saying he retired, turning the key, which grated heavily and with a harsh sound in the lock. Victor would have spoken of his suspicion that something was wrong, and that mischief was designed; but Bernard interrupted him with a gesture of impatience, and presently began talking on a theme which appears to have formed the solace of his prison-house, and by which he whiled away the hours, which else had seemed so tedious to his free and active nature. He had for some time had it in his intention to publish a little book containing his observations and opinions on various matters—in short, the experience of his past years. He now recurred to this subject. “I have resolved,” said he, “that my book shall treat on four subjects; to wit, agriculture, natural history, the plan of a delectable garden (to which I will append a history of the troubles in Saintonge), and lastly, the plan of a fortified town, which might serve as a city of refuge in these perilous times. Of the two former I have sketched the plan in my imagination, and the matter of the garden now fills my thought. You know well the delight I have in so great a recreation, and how I have been minded to make me such a pleasant retreat, as a place of refuge, whither I might flee from the iniquity and malice of the world to serve God with pure freedom.” “Would to heaven, my beloved friend, you were safe sheltered there,” said Victor, “but oh! methinks, this is but a pleasant dream.” “Often, in my