At the age of twelve, Philip corresponded with his father in French and Latin, with correctness and elegance; at thirteen, he entered the University at Oxford, where he distinguished himself by his scholarship, by his noble character, and blameless life. At the age of seventeen, having left college, he went to Paris in the suite of the Earl of Lincoln, the ambassador extraordinary of Queen Elizabeth to the court of France. Because of his high connections and reputation, and the letters which he carried from his uncle, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, he was received with much distinction. Charles IX., a courteous, though treacherous prince, and his wily mother, Catharine de Medicis, were extremely gracious to him. The king gave him an office of honor in his palace, and strove in various ways to win his regard and confidence. But Philip neither liked nor trusted him, but gave the respect and friendship of his noble heart to a more truly royal object, the brave and good King Henry of Navarre. It was soon evident what secret object King Charles had in trying to conciliate the English at his court. It was to blind their eyes, that they should not foresee and help to arrest one of the most fearful and cruel crimes to be found in the dark history of Catholic persecution, the Massacre of St. Bartholomew. Charles, his wicked mother, and the priests, their advisers, chose this time when a large number of Protestants were assembled at Paris on the occasion of the marriage of the young Prince of Navarre to the sister of the King of France, for a general massacre of the Huguenots, throughout the city and kingdom. On St. Bartholomew's day the slaughter began, and lasted until many thousand Protestants--men, women, and children--were murdered, shot down and cut down in their houses, their churches, and in the open street. King Charles himself, though scarcely more than a boy, was the most brutal and blood-thirsty of all the persecutors. He stood at one of the windows of his palace, and fired at the poor, shrieking, struggling people, as fast as his carbine could be loaded. Many a brave Christian father and noble youth were laid low by his cruel shot, in those dreadful streets and courts, where the hard stones steamed with warm blood as meadows in May mornings smoke with ascending dews, and where down the very gutters, instead of swift currents of summer rain, ran sluggish red rivulets, slowly flowing from the bodies of the dead and dying, piled on either side. But though that bad and mad young king cruelly meant every shot, and though every drop of blood he shed was a guilt-stain on his soul, and every dying groan he caused was to ring on his ear and pierce his wicked heart till he died, yet, after all, he harmed only the poor, perishing bodies of his victims; their deathless souls he but early set free from mortal bondage, and hastened home to God.